Love: /noun/ an intense feeling of deep affection.

We all have some idea about what “love” is. But the word is no more than a symbol, a

miserly surrogate for a deeply felt experience. Much like the word “red,” we have no way to be certain that "my experience of the color is identical to yours." We simply trust that the word is a suitable, mostly uniform, token. But “red” has something that “love” seems to lack. “Red” has “ruby,” “scarlet,” "crimson," “burgundy,” “maroon,” “brick,” and so forth. But we seem to fold all the hues of “love” into a single symbol. One might wonder, if we could disentangle the many shades of love, should we? I think we should.

Universal Love. Yellow. Love thy neighbor. Love thy fellow man. This is the sort of love of which we hear the saints and sages speak. This love represents a deep commitment, a binding oath to harbor goodwill for all things. We extend this love to strangers, to friend and foe alike, to the birds of the sky and the beasts of the Earth. This love is universal, unconditional, and completely selfless.

Biological Love. Orange. The love we feel for our children, our parents, our family, our kin. We do not choose this love, rather it is delt to us by the hand of fate. The love between parent and child is an evolutionary mainstay, the shroud that protects us as we grow from helpless infants to independent adults. It armors us in protection, belonging, and meaning. We love our siblings, relatives, and kinsman, for without them, we’d face the winter alone. Though profoundly useful, its necessity should not degrade its potency. We truly do love our kin, for we hold them in our hearts, we protect them, and we serve them to the best of our abilities.

Romantic Love. Red. This love is fire, that raging inferno that consumes us. This is the passion that burns uncontrollably, that fuels our cravings, that leaves us scorched and gasping for air. It is the raw desire we see in our lovers' eyes, that need for one another, that thirst that cannot be slaked. It is temptation, ferocity, jealousy, and fear. But like all fires, this blaze eventually recoils, until all that remains is the smoldering glow of its embers. When it enraptures us we are blinded, as though staring into the sun and we can see nothing else. Usually, we mistake its great splendor for something deeper. For this love, ultimately, is a trick. It satisfies that need to be wanted, to be touched, a potent drug that yields pure bliss for as long as we're on it. But when we sober up, perhaps after years, perhaps after children, we realize that the fire has dwindled; and we either find solace in other things, or seek to rekindle the flames anew.

Spiritual Love. White. This love is magic. This love is effortless. There is no game to be played, no campaign to be waged, for the victory is already won. Perhaps you believe in souls, perhaps you don't. It's irrelevant. "Soul," too, is just a symbol. It symbolizes that which evades the scrutiny of our methodical rationality. It symbolizes the purpose that we didn't know we had, the lessons we didn't realize we were destined to learn. This love is a single moment that outlives eternity. It is a playful transaction between souls, a contract, signed on our behalf, by forces we cannot see. It is the vow you never made, but will always keep. It is a profound sense of knowing, that extends beyond knowledge. But despite its gravity, it is light as a feather.

These are love.

I trust nobody.

As a human being, there is one fact I know to be undeniably true: every human being is flawed. You cannot depend on another person for your mental health, or trust another human with your sanity. It is foolish to do so, and will bring about your inevitable undoing. A man on a ledge who gave the task of fixing his mind to another man, is not a victim of life, he is a victim of a natural consequence of his actions.

Blind faith. If you truly believe that a support system of friends and family is all you need to survive in this world, you will not survive. It may seem like you have stability, acting according to society’s definition of “normal”, “healthy”, whatever that even means. You don’t. You're in denial.

Complete trust in another human will only result in being disappointed when they are negligent of your feelings, or being disappointed when they try to fix you, believing themselves to be all-powerful gods who are superior to your flaws, ignorant of their own. Either way, disappointment is inevitable. The only person you can trust, the only one whom you've known all your life, whose every thought you're familiar with, is your own flawed self.

Yet despite all this, our cynicism, our former belief that true love isn’t real and that faith is a fickle thing, I completely trust you. It was a battle with the long-held beliefs made concrete as truths in my mind. I was certain that to open up my heart would be equal to goad the bully into beating me up, to invite karma and whatever other forces exist out there to toy with me, with us, to disrupt our natural balance, upset the scales and cause the weights to drop on our feet and make us feel pain.

It's painful being so far away from you. I always said, we agreed, long distance was never an option, but love is lawless and allows you to change your mind, to adapt to the circumstances and try new things. Sometimes my heart hurts as it stretches to bear the weight of the lack of weight of your body against mine, your absence, the empty space in my bed, in my arms. I admit, I may feel the tiniest pang of jealousy when you mention another woman or female colleague. Perhaps it's not jealousy, but envy. I'm consumed with envy that these people are able to see your face every day, to hear you speak, to have the pleasure of being able to have a face-to-face conversation and breathe the same air as you.

You are the first man to love me for who I am, to see me for all angles, to never be disgusted or horrified or ashamed of being seen with me. To kiss me in public. To apologise for hurting me, even when the pain was predetermined by the condition of my existence. To love me in the morning, without make-up. You have never once tried to fix me. You let me leave mascara stains on your polo shirts without saying a word, you just held me, listened and let me be. You are a human antidepressant, giving me more confidence in my physical appearance, more motivation to improve my life, more reasons to live. That is why I completely trust you. You do all this, sometimes without intending to. You wish nothing but happiness for me, and derive happiness from being a part of my life. Our love is uncontaminated, despite everything. In a world regulated by relativism, it's an absolute truth.

For the first time, I don't feel used, a means to an end. I feel loved. You have taken over me. And I willingly let you.

This is your written coronation. I officially crown you the King of my heart.

Instagram: @incompleteexpressions

#love #romance #trust #longdistance #relationships

It’s hard to think of how it used to be

When we would run through open fields

With our arms outstretched

Never caring where we were going

Or who was watching

We just liked to feel the wind

Gliding through our hair

It’s hard to think of when it all changed

We grew up

We made mistakes

We figured out life isn’t always perfect

We started doing all we could

To keep from being judged

We just wanted to fit in

And the only way to fit in

Is to be exactly who they want you to be

But our memories never left our minds

We still longed for those summer days

With no purpose

Now, we spend our days

Searching for purpose

It didn’t matter then

We could be happy without reason

We could be us without reason

It’s hard to realize that back then,

I knew exactly who I was

And now, I can’t seem to figure it out

It seems I had a better grasp on life

When I knew less

But the more I learn,

The more broken I become

The more confused I become

I still don’t have purpose

I still don’t know where I’m running to

But I find no joy in not having the answers

I wish I still didn’t care

I wish life was still all I needed

The older I get, the more questions I have

And none of them are being answered

None of my problems are going away

How do I put myself back together?

How do I get back to that empty field?

All I want

Is for my broken pieces to be put back together

But it seems like that’s too much to ask

It’s hard to be broken

When you remember so vividly

A time when you were whole

You've always been drawn to the broken,

Junkyard trash salvaged and transformed,

Dismantled and reassembled into perfection.

Maybe that's why you chose me,

Collecting my fractured pieces in jars

And storing them away for reassembly.

But I am no puzzle.

My pieces will never fit again flawlessly.

Jagged edges exposed and cracked surfaces

Leave you searching for the girl beneath the wreckage

As if the girl standing before you needs perfecting.

Can you not find the beauty in the damage?

Can you not see the strength in the stitches that bridge the cracks?

You're waving fragments like white flags,

Jars opened for operation,

But I never asked for reassembly.

I only wanted to know if you could love the scars.

#poetry #scars

I am fatigued by the noise, of humanity's din, a rising, ringing pitch that deafens the ears without warning. For I am young but I am tired, a barely conscious child in a storm's eye with its spinning vortex walls, ever so often, pulling me back into the maelstrom. In its center lay the peace, wisdom, the quiet aftermath like the silence of a wartorn field. And here, I reflect, I learn, but I do not experience directly; I do not touch the hands which pull me backawards; I cannot learn the intricacies of the disease before it spreads in my lungs. Here, gravity exists no more, and I lay prone—suspended—with splayed arms, eyes dimmed, heart beating a tranquility I do not deserve.

I cry for the burdens of those I see struggling beneath their weight, the inherent prices placed upon eternal liberties that we've falsely claimed as byproducts of modernity; the consequences of inevitable circumstances, as they attempt to manifest their potential, in a society suffocating the creative thought processes that could lend us greater courage to face these illusions.

Yet I exalt all suffering with an almost pious reverence, as a cultist worshiper hails a god, for I am young but I am tired, and I know that the weight of my bones is only the substance of what I've survived, not what I have avoided. I weep for what mental anguish it brings to those close to me, but do not grit my teeth when I face it myself.

"Hello, old friend," I greet him with a sad grin, for he is little else but a shade with endless masks, transitory as we are mortal; his tricks taunting me to a similar state of perplexing oddity and paradoxical behavior, of joining in his spinning darkness with disregard for sense or reason beyond what it might teach me. All the while, I begrudge not the suffering, only my inability to be aware of all that it brings. For I am young but I am tired, and I cannot possibly foresee every shade of meaning, though I may search, desperately, feebly.

I have forgotten how to see the polar shades of black and white.

There are fragments always grounded, pieces of me stitched to the empathy of the earth; often unwilling, are they, to see the greater picture. And so they should be. Without them, I would be little else than a misplaced demigod roaming aimlessly and without concern for others. I've begun to see that the transcendental is in the human; that the sky is the fodder for our dreams; what bleeds is what is earthy; but what writes about it, is the voice beneath the recognition. A detatched, conscious dissonance to instinct.

So here I begin once more, back to the same questions asked to a deaf fate, finding peace, at least, in the consistent mystery they bring, and what little I might do which makes all the difference, to learn to laugh amidst it all.

For I am young but I am tired, and I am without home any longer.

Good Morning, Prosers,

The way publishers find new authors might have just changed forever.

We are pleased to announce that we have joined forces with publishing giant Simon & Schuster, whose legacy includes Ernest Hemingway, Carrie Fisher, and Stephen King.

Simon & Schuster’s editing team hopes to discover the next generation of great authors by utilising our challenge feature and our social community, initially through a 500-2000 word writing challenge that ends June 1, prompting you to, “Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by Simon & Schuster’s editorial staff for consideration.”

This challenge stipulates a minimum of 500 entries and a maximum of 2,000.

We will announce the top-50 entries on June 21, 2017.

Here is the challenge URL: https://theprose.com/challenge/5367

We hope you are as excited about this as we are. If you know people who would like to get noticed by Simon & Schuster, spread the word(s).

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

When your heart breaks again

Is there any love left?

I can only love so many times

Before feeling eternally bereft

When your heart feels pain again

It's best that I live alone

No reason to ever love again

Better to grow old and die at home

When your heart is sad again

There is no one else to blame

I deserve to die alone

Because I brought upon myself pain

When your heart is torn again

I ask, "What is the use"?

This hurt is my fault

Tired of all this self-abuse

I give up on romantic love

Tired of this self-inflicted heartbreak

Realizing that there is no one for me

My emptiness goes deep as a lake

I've experienced too much heartbreak

My broken heart will never heal

Too many disappointments to go on

Romance is an emotion that I'll never feel

When your heart breaks again

I've decided to quit looking for love

All love does is rip apart your soul

Wishing for my spirit to soon soar into the sky above

I tried to count the raindrops

But your voice distracted me

Breezing through the trees

Hidden behind the chaotic winds.

So I tried to watch the lightning

Only for each electrifying flash

To bring back your silhouette

Disguised as all of the dark clouds.

The thunder rolled through

And with every echo it left

All I could hear was your footsteps

Walking away from the destruction

Your storm caused inside of me.

I felt my phone vibrate in the back pocket of my skin tight jeans. I was scared to look at it for more than one reason. I reached down and silenced it before my teacher heard it. The thought of the words that were in that message frightened me. As I walked to lunch I dreaded the moments in the near future. It was amazing how just a few words coming from a piece of technology could have so much significance. As I sat down, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and turned it on. The word "message" appeared on the screen. I opened it and read the heart-breaking words. "I never wanted you." I slouched down in the chair and closed my eyes. I slowly opened my eyes and continued to read. "I never wanted you. You aren't worth it. I just wanted what you could give me." My eyes filled with tears. The person I loved, didn't love me. He didn't want me. I thought it was real. I thought that he loved me back. But it was all a lie. He used me for what he wanted until I was no longer of use. I was an object to him. He used me until he no longer wanted me and could throw me away. He just got what he wanted and then moved on. He promised me so many things. He promised love. He got me to love him so that I would do what he wanted. I wasted so many things on him. I wasted my heart on him. I will find someone who cares for me. He will just go through as many as he can, but he will never find the right one.