Butterflies

My inspiration lies within the works of art that tie this whole piece together. Because poetry is a work of art. Poetry is alive. These stanzas are my canvas. I, being the painter, have created a masterpiece. One that will be timeless. * * * I can’t express what being in love is. It’s so complex, yet…simple. You don’t know that you’re in love until you feel it, and when you feel it, it’s incurable. To be in love and to love- That is the question. To quote (and modify) The Taming of the Shrew: “You burn, you pine, you perish, but love remains. Love is the exception.” You know the feeling, when they enter the room. Your eyes try not to wander but those flowers, the roses red and violets blue that surround them…they begin to bloom. …Boom. It’s like, your heart drops, not just your jaw. You are capsized. You know the line, it’s been said a thousand times… But your stomach… it fills with butterflies. The throbbing pain that only intensifies the longer you stare, but you can’t not stare. They are just there. Maybe that’s the difference. To be in love and to love. One can be explained while the other remains as inconsistent. To love is to hold a deep affection for someone or something. Hard stop. It’s so matter-of-fact, so unfulfilling. It lacks that beautiful concept that I so adore. For something that's said to make time stop, the world spin, and make you forget what century you're in, I kind of expected…more. But to be in love contradicts. Being in love changes shape more times than you can say it. Every day people find a new way to express the feeling they get the first time their eyes met. It is euphoric. If I could write the words, I would, but I’m afraid I would butcher it. It’s just that important to me that being in love stays as one of the world’s greatest mysteries. One that I can continue to fawn over within our pages of history. This addiction I have for love likely stems from my hatred for the thought. It’s an affliction that I never could shake off. Because If love is true, its existence a fact, then the reality sets in that if I haven’t found it yet, I likely never will. Why must love be so concealed? It's a secret that I scoured for, unaccompanied, and unhealed. So I rather spend my time writing about love than despairing in what's unrevealed. I was in love once. In a way that to this day I try to explain but the words never seem to fit right on the page. My search for love was extremely short-lived so instead, I use pen and paper to write what could be, what never was, and what is. I hate love but for some reason, without it, my life would lose meaning. In a fashion, it’s my passion but also my greatest fear. I fear to indulge in it; my obsession would ever grow because I know that if I let go and let my words show, it would be an endless stream: Constantly ebbing and flowing. Even now I’m losing myself while writing. There’s just so much more to say. To be in love and to love- That is the question. One that I pray will never be answered so that one day I may become the writer of those pages in history. The writer that depicts the world’s greatest mystery. The one I still fear. As long as I fear love, my fervor for writing will never wither. It is the very force that drives me but those words still entice me. The ones that I wish I could write but the words never seem to fit right on the page when I try with all my might not to butcher them. If I could, I would write something like: “He fell.” “He saw her, and he loved her, and he fell in love with her…and then apart”. Although he fell, at least he fell with all of his heart.” Astonishingly so, that is the greatest line I’ve ever written. Any more and I worry that I would destroy the simplistic beauty that is: Love. Nothing more needs to be said and yet, in my head, I still attempt to create the right words. I can’t stop writing about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. Like…how many times does it take to say “I love you” in a million different ways until it resonates? If the words did fit right on the page, I would write: “In this world of windows leading to the inner workings of one’s soul, she decided to look through mine. And she didn’t look away. She chose to look through my heart and in return, I chose to stay.” These are the words I think about day to day. These are the words that give meaning to Love, thus justifying my life. Because as long as love exists, and is not yet proven, then these are the words that make me want to write. * * * I’ve studied love. Immersed myself in it. The more I begin to understand, the less it begins to make sense. Love is the ebbing and flowing stream of words that I create in my head. Ever changing. Because It doesn’t just change shape, it engulfs it. It’s engulfed me. But I do not wish to be set free from the thorns that love has condemned me with. I must live with this burden. These thorns reassure me that the meaning of my life isn’t worthless. The pain inspires me so that I may continue to write the wrong words until I find my purpose. Love lives on, ergo, must I. It is something that I know I will spend the rest of eternity trying to identify. So, to close, quote, (and modify) Albert Einstein: “To define insanity, is to continuously do the same thing, again and again, expecting a different outcome.” If that is true, then call me mindless because Love is my muse. Poetry is alive. And I, being the painter, have created a masterpiece. One that will be timeless.