V

The difference between love and everything else is that love defies that which we hate about the world around us. Love does not suddenly die. It does not vanish when we need it. It lives in the back of our minds when we are alone. It can be trusted when nothing else can, it is a path straight through the defenses and mistrust and suspicion and apprehension and uncertainty that makes speaking or trusting or even dealing with other people so complicated. It is logical simplicity in a world of duplicity. It is to know when you go to sleep that you are watched over endlessly and benevolently by someone.



And the hardest part of love is when you can't stop ignoring the lessons of everything else and begin to realize that no, maybe it isn't absolute after all. Things are connected by strings. Gravity binds things together closely, absolutely, invisibly and perpetually. But these strings can be stretched, pulled, and eventually broken when they reach their limit. After that there is no string, no bond, just empty space between two dissociated objects. There is no evidence to suggest they ever coexisted, only the cold action of physics that drew them apart.



And you, I'd breathe. In spite and hatred and violence there was always my family. Weak, strong, there was no difference for once. For once it was all safe, for once someone didn't let me go. I could seek solace without sacrificing my pride. Maybe these things exist only in mutual suffering, and vanish like shadows in the light of content. Maybe we are only family in the discontent that runs through our veins, half removed again when the wounds start to heal. I am hard. I am unfriendly and hostile. I have contempt. I have bitterness. I have vendettas of pride and spite and small insults. But it was never the same rules, pour toi. Je pourrais regarde 200 garçons meurent sans le blesse que te regarder pleurer me fait sentir. Est-ce tu devenir un garçon comme un autre, encore et pour le dernier fois?