The Saggy Armchair

Love demands expression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest. be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and spills the liquid. It is no conversationist, love. It is a big game hunter and you are the game. A curse on this game. How can you stick at a game when the rules keep changing?

I will call myself Alice and play croquet with the flamingoes. In wonderland everyone cheats, and love is wonderland, is it not? Love makes the world go round. Love is blind. All you need is love. Nobody died of a broken heart. You'll get over it. It'll be different when we are married. Times a great healer. Still waiting for Mr. Right? Miss Right?

Its the cliches that cause all the trouble. A precise emotion seeks a precise expression. If what i feel is not precise, then should i call it love? Its so terryfying, love, that all i can do is shove it under a dump bin of pink cuddly toys and send myself a greeting card saying, "CONGRATULATIONS!". I am desperately looking the other way so Love wont see me.

I want the diluted version. The sloppy language, the insignificant gestures. The saggy armchair of cliches. Its all right, millions of bottoms have sat here before me. The springs are well worn, the fabric smelly and familiar. I dont have to be frightened.

They did it. Now i will do it. Arms outstreached, not to hold you, no. Just to keep my balance. Sleepwalking to that armchair.

How happy we will be. How happy everyone will be.

And they all lived happily ever after.