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being in love with the idea of being in love

I want to be excruciatingly honest about being in love with the idea of being in love.
I don’t want to write something that impresses an invisible panel of judges. A group of people who only watch Swedish cinema because it’s the only film with integrity. A group of people who read what I’m writing as childish or melodramatic. I know I use flowery words, but it’s because that’s how I feel.
We’ve made it so honest emotions are so common that they are no longer respected. You can only be respected if you scoff at love, pain, grief, and sorrow as if you’re some highly evolved being, above such basic human emotion.
I’m guilty of this myself. Love is painful, so why acknowledge or even participate in an emotion that can leave you broken? Isn’t that masochism? Wouldn’t it be stronger to leave love behind? Live only to succeed in your career, friendships, art, and self?
I think I’m part of a generation, a movement, of writers who write what they feel, even if it’s a bore to some. Even if it’s been written a hundred times before. Whether it be weak, or beneath others. I write about the obvious, but maybe, hopefully, in a way that makes it feel fresh. Makes it feel OK to feel that way.
Love can hurt, OK. Now let’s discuss what specifically hurts – two weeks of your phone not lighting up with their name. When you can’t smell them on your clothes anymore. And even later, much later, when you forget the sound of their voice.
Love can hurt, OK. Now let’s make it OK to hurt and be honest about it.
I want to be excruciatingly honest about being in love with the idea of being in love, and even with the heartbreak that often follows.

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