Surprises or Love? I'm dithering about my topic today. 'Surprises' seems too thin, whilst 'Love' seems too vast (although with this key pad the topic of 'Typos' could easily outstrip them both!).
It would be more than fair to say that I am no expert on either subject - I generally shy away from giving or receiving surprises, whilst my attempts at dealing with Love have always been rather journeyman, and I would suggest wary of real engagement. I suspect that my understanding of Love has always been hampered by the lack of an independant frame of reference . Meaning what you say? Meaning I've never really trusted literature - Love always seems too much there; and I've never trusted my own emotions enough to consider what I felt valid. I have a similar issue with pain - I'd really like a scale to let me know whether I'm actually in pain, or merely a hypochondriac in denial; so when someone says: "Does that hurt?" I don't have to consider how much pain other people consider enough to be 'hurt'.
In the same way the various versions of love in poetry, epic and even Richard Curtis never quite seem right - mainly because I've never felt right about that sort of public declaration in the first place (And I can't pull off the bumbling idiot like Hugh Grant - though idiot...?). Well, surprise! Here's my attempt (And you thought this was meandering and lacking structure - ha!)
Love is rarely a straightforward sentence, it's always a complex metaphor - and often, like this sentence, mixed. Love is a naked anorak - exposed and vulnerable, whilst being able to shelter you and your partner from the elements (and then can be tucked into a ball and stored until needed). You see! Here I am attempting to meditate on what many consider to be the essence of humanity and I end up comparing it to effective hiking gear for that trip away from it all - where nature meets suburban planning regulations! You might as well ask if Love needs weatherproofing? To which I say... erm, yes. Love develops depth and texture through time, and becomes ever more a part of you; so much so that it can easily be taken for granted, yet at the same time forms a symbiote with your personality and persona.
To furnish Love you must provide for it, and it is here that danger lurks. For the upkeep can be mistaken for the thing itself. Love can be masked by the customs and rituals used to sustain it. Love is a swelling heart, a trembling stomach and a warm glow in the ribs; it is bodily and anchored to the psyche. As substance and anxiety it is the perpetual oxymoron, and it is a feeling I can finally embrace without fear of misunderstanding or triviality.
Love is the burning present held for the future in a teardrop.