No. 4, À Quoi Ça Sert L'Amour?

There is nothing like romance-- or so I've heard.  Though I am still young, I have yet to experience a romance of my own... or rather, one that is mutually felt.  Yes, I am hopelessly infatuated with Joshua Radin and besotted with Matthew Morrison, yet I understand that such worship will not yield my fantasized results.  From the first day of high school, I was not-so-secretly enamored of a guy in my class.  I am almost certain he knew it, and I regret not taking charge of my emotions.  Being the shy and reserved person that I am, I continued to admire him from afar throughout my four years of high school, after which we headed to different universities and embraced the next chapters of our lives, and I have not seen him since.

Clearly, I have plenty of time to meet "the one," but the abundance of romantic films and books as well as the tales of heartbreak and happiness confessed through music makes it that much more difficult to lead a life without such experiences.  Actors, writers, and singers illustrate the pain and pleasure of the heart as integral elements of their lives.  And how could they not be?  Love is a powerful thing-- a thing that can destroy and restore, ruin and complete, kill or revive.  What's the harm in desiring such passion?  I say none.  And I am willing to wait for it.


As a result of the inspiration of films I have seen, books I have read, and songs I have heard, I recently began crafting a short story.  While I only have two paragraphs thus far, I think there's "something there."  Clearly I have been swayed by the way that our cultures portray love (in any of its forms).  Yet I believe that even those of us who have yet to experience love can still have something to say about its powers, especially the those that we wish to one day feel for ourselves.

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            Betrayal in its purest form—I opened my heavy eyes and gently peered at the familiar body that silently lay beside my own.  I would not disturb him.  He lay there with an expression filled with innocence and peacefulness that I could not dare alter.  And although he was not my husband, I did not consider myself an adulteress, for such a term was far too severe for the sin I had committed in the guilty hours that had so quickly passed.  But as I sat there upon the wintry sheets with my back leaned against the frozen, tangled bars of the bed frame, a prodding feeling hinted at my conscience, forcing me to leave the comforts of my unexpected indulgence.

            When my feet delicately stroked the dark wooden floor, the urge overtook me.  And despite the customary respect given to those who are asleep, I carefully climbed through the off-white linens towards him.  After spending what seemed like hours memorizing his breathing patterns and gazing over the discreet twitching of his lips, I lightly dove down towards his cheek—just far enough for my hair to graze his neckline.  I felt a tender touch caress my arm—gliding up and down my skin in a way that relaxed every part of me.  And when I slowly guided my eyes toward the strokes affection, I saw that it was his hand accepting my presence and consenting to my almost-kiss.  With the weakness of a morning body, he lifted his head up towards mine.  Our lips connected and briefly held onto one another, reminding us of the heartfelt hours we had wrongfully shared according to morality.