“Love begins to be a demon, the moment it becomes a god.”—C.S.Lewis.
For a long time now, I’ve been sitting here thinking that love doesn’t exist, when at a certain point in my life I would’ve sworn by just the simple idea, by the simple word, by its connotation. But lately, love to me has a different connotation. I equate it with stupidity, things I thought were correct now, because they were seconded by thousands of lonely people, with the same lonely ideas. The truth is? I never looked for another perspective. I never looked for anything else besides what I wanted.
I was so busy, trying to get a certain person to notice that I was still breathing for them, that I didn’t look at all the people who were noticing I was breathing. And obviously, this is a long, drawn out, exaggerated situation and representation of something that I think I’ve been going through lately, and have recently been getting myself out of, but it could’ve “cured” my loneliness hours ago. And i don’t just mean a romantic love. I mean a love of anything. A love of music, of writing, of collecting god damn stamps, I don’t know, anything really. Maybe were all just loving demons.
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