I was going to write about love, but I changed my mind. or rather I cannot write about love. I cannot write about love because I do not know about love. As a writer I am allowed to use my imagination, I can visit places I’ve never been to, see sights, taste foods from different countries, I can do all that and then some in my mind. But I cannot write about love, not in the way I want to.
As a reader, you will not know that I am writing from my imagination. You have no idea that I have not walked across the the white sands beaches of Morocco, taking in the beauty of the ocean as the sands reflect the sun. You have no idea that I have not drank the salty broth of Pho while downing it with a medium bodied crisp red wine.
When you read my work, work that I have pulled out of thin air, you will not know that I am faking it. But I know that I am faking it. I know that I am not genuine.
I know I’ve never been to Morocco, heck I can count how many times I’ve been to a real beach on my fingers. I’ve never taken Pho, I don’t even know what a crisp wine tastes like. And in the same light, I don’t know what love, specifically romantic love is like.
I have not experienced the chemical aspects of love. I do not know what it’s like to meet a person that makes my pituitary glands release dopamine, the hormone that should make me feel giddy.
I have never met the person that makes my hypothalamus secrete oxytocin, commonly known as the love hormone, the hormone that is tied to pair-bonding. So I cannot write about love.
I am clueless when it comes to love, I have heard stories though. Of meeting the person that you want to spend the rest of your life with. Or sharing the most intimate aspects of your life with someone else. But I do not know what that is, or I do not know how that mixes with romantic aspects of your life.
I cannot write about the person that brings a smile to my face whenever they cross my mind. I do not have stories about the ONE, that ONE. The one who takes me from panicky to calm in an instant. I cannot write about that person, because they do not exist.
And so I cannot write about love. Not in the way I want to anyway, I can write what it would be like in my fantasies. But fantasies are not real life. Fantasies are beautiful cushions we can sit on when we want to imagine what life should,would and could be.
But fantasies of love cannot live up to experiencing love. I wanted to write about love, but I cannot write about it in the way I want to. I cannot write about this thing called love, not in a way that feel genuine. I cannot bare my heart to you, because it doesn’t know what it means to be vulnerable