Love is war

Someone loves me. I know someone does. I mean someone must, right? Wrong. It’s never that easy with love. There is no right or wrong answer. It’s never black or white. It isn’t even gray for chrissakes. It’s an whole different spectrum of colours. It’s like a little kid splattering paint all over the canvas. Getting splashes of yellow here, a little bit of red there and an alarming amount of blue in the centre.

See, there maybe different kinds of love but there aren’t different versions of it. It’s an 8.2 magnitude earthquake beneath the bed rock of rock bottom. It uproots your life, forces you to swallow bitter and inedible pills of truth. There is so much we don’t know. But what we don’t know can’t hurt us right? Wrong, yet again.

I’ve found love. But at the same time I’ve also found loathing, despair and numbness throughout the days of my tiny existence. So what makes the feeling of love different? I don’t know yet. And I don’t think I ever will. But this much I know, it’s not all bad…