2:16 PM | 0 comments
We convinced ourselves there was love. That’s the saddest part. We began to believe that love was in the loudness, that love was the constant motion of feelings and heart aches, that love was only ever opaque: making it hard to hear anything over the roar of it, making it impossible to feel anything other than the bumps and slumps, and ultimately making it impossible to see anything through the permanent film. That’s where we got it wrong.
Love shouldn’t have minimized the scope in which we saw. Love is in the quietness: in syllables not spoken, in black and white movies, in moments of mourning, moments of awe, in the rustling of sheets in the dark. Love is in the stillness: of faded photographs of generations passed, open country skies where the stars drip down to kiss the abyss, when the ocean could cut the horizon like glass. Love is clarity: a baby’s first breath coupled by a shrill scream, in knowing how one likes their coffee, in knowing who’s calling without checking the caller i.d.
Love was in all the things we took for granted, all the trivial moments we looked past and forgot about. How selfish we looked upon our time together, convinced we’d always have a moment more to instagram or tag, or blog about. Love is in the moments you don’t tell anyone about. Love is so much more simple than what we complicated. Love is so much more important than all of our moments of selfishness and feigned passion. And this is only the beginning of love.
Love was in all the things we took for granted, all the trivial moments we looked past and forgot about. How selfish we looked upon our time together, convinced we’d always have a moment more to instagram or tag, or blog about. Love is in the moments you don’t tell anyone about. Love is so much more simple than what we complicated. Love is so much more important than all of our moments of selfishness and feigned passion. And this is only the beginning of love.
