I have two definitions for love. The first one states that “love is zealously, selflessly, and unconditionally desiring and pursuing someone’s best.” This is my stated belief. The definition I actually believe about love is this:
Love. A happy feeling that is always wrong and never appropriate. The best that can come from it is to pray that God will eventually deliver you from all desires and circumstances associated with it. This results in the best possible outcome in the situation: relief from the “not right.”
I fantasize about love because, deep down in my soul, I don’t actually believe I will get to know it. Yes, it is real for other people—but not for me. I have been given access as an observer, but not a partaker.
Fantasizing—even if it is not sexual or inappropriate—is a cheap substitute for real love, I know. What I don’t think other people know is that imagining what it would be like to be in love seems like the closest thing I will ever have to it. I would rather experience a cheap, fake scene with fictional characters than live my whole life completely isolated from romantic relationships.
Why does it always seem wrong and impermanent? I want what my head believes love is to be what my heart believes as well. I want to know that that love that zealously, selflessly, and unconditionally desires and pursues someone’s good…is real.
Extend your hand, break down the barrier between us until the broken shards of glass scattered on the floor testify to the defeat of my false ideas. Prove me wrong. Show me the fiction in my head is not my only option. Let me come into the real.