If I Call It Love…
It is a little disappointing and also a little scary when you say that the past means nothing to you and that only the present matters. I often find myself wondering, “Really, is that what you think?” I would love to plunge into your past every now and then and linger on for a bit trying to trace the very core of your emotions. I want to know you, not what you have become, but what you have been. Not all at once though, slowly; layer by layer, everyday, for all my life.
We all paint our own past, don’t we? We fine tune the parts that we want to remember, adding little details here and there and blur everything that failed to have an impact. No matter how much you have meddled with the picture of your past, no matter how distorted it is, show me. I’d love to waste a considerable part of my wasted life in doing something of so much importance to me- probing your mind. And when I am not over indulging in trying to know you, you should make me laugh or laugh with me over the silliest things. Let life be nothing but knowing and laughing. I love to laugh. Did you know?
Show me what you have kept repressed under layers and layers of your niceness. Why are you so easy to shame? Have you any clue how shameless the world is? Anyone who knows anything about keeping secrets will tell you that a nice person is a slowly ticking time bomb, repressing everything that is out of line, keeping his rage a secret. How did you get so good at keeping secrets?
Tell me what you are ashamed of and when did you last think you were not good enough? Because anyone who knows anything about love will tell you that nobody wants to be loved for being nice. We just want to be endorsed for our less respectable, less desirable attributes. We want to be loved for our most ridiculous fantasies, we want to be capable of hurting someone. So don’t worry about being nice; reveal yourself… But not all at once; slowly, layer by layer, everyday, for all my life.
Like a tea bag in a hot cup of water, let me dip into your past a little but don’t leave me there for too long. One day, if we separate, which we will, all I’d want is to be a fine tuned part of your painted past. The part that you remember, one that you talk about, one that you sleep with every night, in a safe corner of your brain. Am I in love for wanting all of this? If I am, then so be it.
If I call it love, will you let me run my fingers through your hair and kiss your long-hidden face? Promise me in return, that when I become a faint part of it, you won’t treat your past with such disgrace.