Forelsket

Forelsket (Norwegian): The indescribable euphoria experienced as one begins to fall in love

 

I have wanted love all my life.

At the age of five love came in the form of my parents. Love came in the form of my grandmother fussing over my hair. Love was my grandfather slipping me chocolates and coffee when he thought my mother wasn’t looking. Love was pure and innocent.

At the age twelve, love came in the form of dashing princes, valiant heroes who would rescue me from an ivory tower. Love was also the boy who laughed without a care in the world across the classroom. Love was still innocent and pure. Love was still a colourful, shiny feeling that had never hurt me. It was love, how could it?

At the age of fifteen, I had been burnt by love. Love had run away when he realised I loved him. But that hadn’t been love, I had assured myself. Love wasn’t cruel, I told myself at night.

At the age of sixteen, I thought I had found love. Love had come in the form of the boy who kissed me a little awkwardly for the first time. Love had been the way he remembered the little things. Love had been the way simple walks down a quiet road were magical. Love had been the way I could rely on him to stay after a fight. Love had been the way held me. Love was still pure, and innocent. Love was still the prince who had come to save me from the ivory tower, he just looked different.

At the age of seventeen, love left. I cried and screamed, but then I realised it was for the best. I also realised that love hadn’t really left. I realised that love still existed when my best friend hugged me a little tighter. I realised love had stuck around when my friends didn’t give up on me despite all my efforts to distance myself. I realised love had never left when my mother hugged me when she saw my red eyes after a night of crying.

I am still seventeen. Now, I know slightly better than to simply label infatuation as love. Now, I’m slightly hesitant to simply give myself up. But I would for you.

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Euphoria

euphoria: a feeling of great happiness that usually lasts for a short time only
Inexplicable happiness is what you feel when your best friend tells you she loves you out of the blue. It’s what you feel when you watch your parents jokingly bicker on the best way to cook an egg. It’s what you feel when you laugh with your best friends around you. It’s the same feeling you get when you watch your puppy bark for the first time or watch your cat chase a light around the house. It’s the feeling you get when you watch your dad struggle not to tear up at seeing your college acceptance letter. It’s starting your day with a mother’s hug. It’s hushed, late night conversations. It’s the feeling you get when you’re in your lover’s arms and they tighten their grip on you. It’s a fast car on a good night. It’s him next to you, with his arm around you, in a fast car on a good night. It’s the nights spent dancing in your room. And it’s the dark silent nights that feel like time has stopped for a bit. It’s watching horror movies with your friends. It’s just being with your cousin. It’s having a nice picture taken of you. It’s taking a nice picture of yourself. It’s cold coffees on hot days and ice creams you shouldn’t be eating on cold nights. It’s in spending an afternoon alone, and nights walking with your favourite person. It’s kissing the stranger with the eyes like yours.
It’s in the little things.

Kilig

Kilig – Tagalog – The heady-sublime rush you experience right after something good happens, particularly in love/dating. Like running into your crush, kissing someone for the first time, hearing someone you love tell you they love you too for the first time.

 

“I can make him laugh” the realisation struck me hard.

His laugh was contagious, and for another moment he was breathtaking. I just watched him laugh, I couldn’t have taken my eyes off of him if I had wanted to. When he looked at me after, I knew that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of me either.

I don’t know why this is so important to me. I don’t know why he is so important to me.

He was supposed to be fleeting. He was supposed to be a beautiful moment in a kaleidoscope of beautiful moments. I was supposed to look into the kaleidoscope and not remember the exact shade his eyes were. He wasn’t supposed to burn me with a single touch. I was supposed to forget about the way he kissed me like he needed me to live. I was supposed to forget how soft his hair felt when I ran my hands through it and how hot his skin was under my touch. But I don’t want to forget the way he holds me tight, making sure that I know just how much he needs me close as well.

He was an impulse, who wasn’t meant to be anything more.

But as I kissed him again, no laughter in sight this time, I could tell he had become something more.

So, can somebody tell me when he became something more?

Kalopsia

Kalopsia: The delusion of things being more beautiful than they actually are.

 

“He tastes new,” was all I could think as I was kissing him.

The way he kissed was so different from you, the way he held me so foreign, his hands on my skin so unexpected.

It was perfect. He tasted of alcohol one minute, I coughed out smoke the next. I kissed away the stray tears, that appeared at the guilt I felt, and I kissed away my worries. I kissed him under the flashing lights and for a moment everything was so unbelievably perfect.

He wasn’t you, and he can never hope to be you. He can’t have my heart the way you do. He can’t make my stomach turn like you do. He may have kissed me breathless, but he could never take away my breath away like you still can.

He was everything I needed as he looked straight into my eyes with such unadulterated lust that I forgot you for a minute. He caressed my hair, and gently stroked my face. His eyes as dark as mine, and with just as much feeling in them. With the music humming in my veins, I found a little relief in his arms.

He tasted of coffee, in the end, addictive and sweet. He was kind, muttering promises that he was going to break and sweet nothings that were empty. My heart pained for a minute at the thought of leaving him, but the next minute he was erased from my mind. Just like I need you to be.

You can call me anything you want to, you can insult me all you want, you can talk about me all you want. You can be hot and cold and accuse me of every crime in the book and I’d still never be able to be mad at you. No matter how perfect the guy in front of me is, my mind will forever be on you.

Because, he may have been perfect, but he wasn’t you.

Sceptical​

Sceptical – Not easily convinced; having doubts or reservations

 

Paranoia pours herself another drink as she listens to what Trust has to say,

“We should tell her what’s happened, share our feelings, it’ll help us feel better in the end.”

Paranoia scoffs, twisting with a swish of her pitch black coat. An eyebrow raised she simply rolled her eyes at Trust’s childishness.

“But will it help us?” Doubt enquires, retouching her blood red lipstick, “Paranoia, tell her it’s not safe,”

“It’s not safe, Trust,” her heels click as she walks over to the sofa, “What about the judgement? What if she decides to leave when she finds out? What if she thinks we’re being clingy and desperate for attention?”

“It’s not worth the heartbreak Trust,” Doubt adds, brushing back Trust’s hair.

“I agree,” Fear says, entering the room, “It’s best we keep to ourselves.”

“I disagree,” Fear jumps as Love pops up behind her choosing to glare at the blonde.

“You’re irrational and blind to any consequences,” Anger pipes up from the corner of the room, her hands continuing to glide along the keys of the piano,” Remember what happened the last time you made decisions around here?”

“Hey! How could she have seen any of that coming?” Trust says.

“Exactly what we’re trying to tell you both,” Paranoia says calmly, “We don’t want any repeats of last time, do we?”

Silence falls over the room while Paranoia takes a sip of her whisky.

“We love her, we trust her, why not tell her?” Love says softly, tears threatening to fall.

Fear sighs and pulls Love into her arms,

“Because we’re scared of what will happen.”

Love simply held onto Fear as tears fell.

“I guess you guys are right,” Trust says, looking over at Doubt and Paranoia, “Last time was a mess, maybe I shouldn’t be making these decisions.”

“Glad you could see that Trust,” Doubt says, laying a manicured hand on her shoulder. Her sharp nails digging into Trust’s shoulder. Paranoia and Fear sighed in relief.

Brushing off her hand, Trust walked out of that room, mumbling excuse me’s. She opened the double doors and walked out as Guilt walked in, glassy-eyed and eerily silent. Her grey gown brushing the floor as she took a seat in the middle of the room.

“Oh no,” Fear said, backing away from Guilt, terror evident in her kohl-rimmed eyes.

“We’re going to have to live with her now,” Love piped up, pouring herself a drink, “Guilt won’t leave until Trust comes back.”

“I guess we are,” Paranoia said gripping her glass a little tighter,”Better get yourself another drink.”

Jouska

Jouska: A hypothetical conversation you compulsively play out in your head.

 

A conversation.

“I love you.”

The most beautiful lie.

“Don’t lie to me.”

A tearful reply, too much emotion.

“I’m not lying.”

Acting comes naturally to some.

“That’s another lie.”

Still too much emotion.

“If that’s what you want to believe then fuck you. I’m done trying to convince you all the time.”

Anger also comes easily.

“Please don’t go.”

Oh fuck. I said that out loud.

Later that night a text message is received

A reply is sent.

Another text received. A goodbye. This time for real.

I sigh.

Here come the tears,

Then the screams.

Then the self-loathing.

Finally,

It ends the same way, in both reality and fantasy.

With a broken soul,

And a heavy heart.

Miracles

How are you supposed to write about someone you rely on so much, but can never tell?

How are you supposed to let that person know that they mean the world to you, when your word isn’t worth trusting?

How are you supposed to apologise to the person for all the disturbances, but nobody else gets you like they do?

And worst of all,

how do you react when they ask you to write about them knowing very well that you tore up everything you ever wrote?

Knowing, that you spent hours trying to perfect a letter for them, but could never get it perfect.

Knowing, that you spent ages staring teary eyed and overthinking before calling for help.

Knowing, that you spent nights staring at the ceiling wondering where everything changed.

I’ll tell you how.

You re-read the letter they wrote, and that one message they sent, and feel better.

You think of your best memory of them and smile.

You think of all that they’ve done for you, and you smile even wider.

You realise that people that affect you, like they do, don’t come about often, and don’t stay for too long.

The same way miracles don’t stay forever.

You thank the universe for the miracle, and finally write about them.

 

So, apparently everything I thought about taking a break was a lie and a disaster of a decision. It is hell to not write when there’s so much in my head. I apologize for the overreaction. The break wasn’t working out, so I will continue to post.

Razbliuto

Razbliuto (Russian): The feeling a person has for someone he or she once loved, but no longer feels the same way about.

 

“I love you.”

Three simple words, said convincingly enough will sway a foolish heart.

Wait for a heartbeat for them to say,

“I love you too.”

Now you’ve got their heart in your hands. You grab them, pull them close, and say the magic words and finally seal the incantation with a kiss. Sweet words and kisses are going to keep them right where you want them.

“You’re being unreasonable,” You say, ignore the sounds of crying, “this isn’t my fault, it’s yours.”

The first of many cuts to the heart in your hand. The cut oozes blood. It’s deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill.

“I love you,” You’re throwing salt on fresh cuts, “but you’re being ridiculous and unbearable.” The cut ooze again.

“I can’t talk to you,” You say, driving a knife into the heart.

To twist you say, “I can’t talk to you because I can’t trust you.”

Tears will cover phone screens the way the blood will cover your hands.

“I don’t care anymore,” A second knife, drive it deep and yank it out, “I’ve given up on you.” Drive it back in. They’ll gasp at the pain and fail to hold back the tears.

“I love you,” the fools will continue to say.

To end them you say,

“I don’t think I love you anymore.”

Their hands will shake as you drive the last knife deeper than ever. Tears will stream instead of drip and the heart in your hands will beat erratically. Fingers will hover over keys, and screams will tear their way out. Phone screens will lay as broken as their soul.

“Why?” The question is bound to be next, be prepared for the last and final blow.

“I’m sick of you, that’s why.”

Drop their heart, and hear it shatter as it hits the ground. Wash your hands of the blood, and walk away.