I was barely a young man when I met my first real love. She was a wounded romantic, and I was young and on fire. We walked through an empty playground and I told her I loved her, because I did. I reached inside and withdrew my fiery heart, the brightest and most trusting of all my hearts. I gave it to her because I knew she would always care for it. In time, her scars spoke lies to her, and she believed them. She poured water upon my fiery heart, and the charred remains dried up and blew away.
My burns were still swathed in bandages when I met my second real love. She was confident beyond the clouds, and I was stone-like with wariness. We kissed beneath winter icicles and I told her I loved her, because I did. I reached inside and withdrew my stone heart, the stoutest and most cautious of all my hearts. I gave it to her because I knew she would always care for it. In time, she deemed married life a vexation, and divorce a rite of passage to true Womanhood. She squeezed blood from my stone heart, and the dust left behind scattered and blew away.
The cracks had just healed when I met my third real love. She was purposely distant, and I was redesigning myself. We stood under a shower of autumn leaves and I told her I loved her, because I did. I reached inside and withdrew my paper heart, the intricately folded and most expressive of all my hearts. I gave it to her because I knew she would always care for it. In time, she found the expressiveness tiresome, called it abrasive. She tossed my paper heart upon the fire, and the embers floated up and blew away.
My eyes were newly dry when I met my fourth real love. She was manically pixie-like, and I was hopeful yet fragile. We each crossed the skies to be briefly near each other, and I told her I loved her, because I did. I reached inside and withdrew my glass heart, the wide-eyed and most delicate of all my hearts. I gave it to her because I knew she would always care for it. In time, she came to fear the hopeful closeness, and pushed my glass heart away. It shattered to sand upon the floor, and the sand caught the wind of my sighs and blew away.
I cannot know what, or who, I will be when I meet my true, real love. She will be everything I have sought, and I will be frightened, yet willing. We will fill the spaces of each others’ souls, and I will tell her I love her, because I will. I will reach inside…and find that all my hearts are gone, save the one true heart that makes me myself. She will reach inside and withdraw half of her heart, and say “I will share my one true heart with you, because I know you will always care for it.” I will reach inside and withdraw half of my heart. I will give it to her because I know she will always care for it. In time, my heart will be one with hers, and hers with mine. That is when I will know that I have found…
…my true, real love.
He sees all his friends, old acquaintances, even his family, navigating life like masterful downhill skiers. Slicing between flags at blinding speeds, looking as calm as they would were they walking the grocery aisle. But then he looks to himself and sees a one-armed man trying to juggle for the first time. With axes. Blindfolded. And upside-down. Nothing comes easily except gaining weight and procrastinating. He doesn’t know why he can’t right himself on this river of existence. But at the same time, he does. Admitting to himself that he is lazy and unmotivated is not the hard part. It is sadly easy. What is difficult for him is fighting that truth. It is easier to stagnate and be mad at the universe than it is to stand up and cut your way through the jungle between yourself and your ideal. But there is always something missing.
If he had a better job he would be happy enough to make changes.
If his job had a better schedule he could be more creatively productive.
If he had a girlfriend he would be confident enough to take the steps needed to grow.
If he had more money he could work less and use that time to work out.
If he had higher self-esteem he could maintain a relationship.
If he wasn’t this, he could be that.
If he was here, he could go there.
If one, then the other.
If up, then down.
If future, then present.
If he had motivation, he could write. So he stood up, took a step, and he wrote this.