The illusion of love

Or the love letter that never got sent
Or secret love
Or whatever title you wish to fill

This is quite a shock for me to find that after all this time of not writing anything, I have to come up with something as cheesy as the illusion of love. Claiming love an illusion, as it is, with no scientific or analytical basis whatsoever, is what critiques would see as a desperate attempt at gaining readership I so rightfully deserve, meh.

But the cheesiness does not necessarily end there, oh it goes ooon and ooon, it keeps drooling and dripping on that I will need to display a warning sign due to its lethal content.

People actually died from cheesiness overdose, and they died miserably. It's like being forced to drink a barrel of Bali Hai in a desolate dodgy pub where the strippers are as ugly as hell, and the only way you can get out is by drinking the self-proclaimed beer until its last drop. Never was a beer taste so bad it actually worse than plain water. It tastes like shit.

It won't kill you I know, but having been in somewhat similar situation before, I almost swear that death by lightning strike was better, or in its most gruesome sense, humane.

But on with the cheesiness, the reason why this post is called the illusion of love, and not the secret love, god forbid, is because the brain dictates, and upon its many logical resorts, treating love as an illusion is somewhat more reasonable than, say, treating love as one of god's greatest gifts.

Wtf.

I had a priest who taught me Christianity back in the college heyday some light years ago, and he anxiously revealed to us in one lazy afternoon about his epic discovery, achieved after years of deep transcendental thoughts, that sex was indeed god's greatest gift.

He sounded gay as hell, and definitely needs to get his brain checked for humanity's sake.

I got an A if you had to guess.

But when people are caught in a web of overwhelming emotions of longing, a superfluous excitement and grief that goes in parallel, a general phenomenon they can not explain, a bitching itch in their chest that somewhat felt like hunger in the upward position, an unbearable distress that melts their knees to their feet, they just have to name it with something that its diction alone does not incite negative connotation.

And so the word love was born.

Stupid? Aren't we all?

But listen to this, know thyself, and for thirty years being stuck with myself I understand that for what it's worth, I can function better when I'm not in a state that people collectively describes as love.

It's killing me.

And so the innate nature of treating it as an illusion is somewhat born from my years of nurtured defense mechanism.

Simply because in a not so distant reality, I have found myself tangled in the same web, and in no better terms, the fucked-up-ness is just too intimidating.

And being the logical type of shithead, always the logical type, I have to put myself in the third person perspective whenever the subject of affection revealed itself, in the simplest way as the little green dot in your communicator, relentlessly comparing what I want to do and what the genuinely sane laid-back me would do.

And what everything is line up against is just perfect, which consequently made me the architect of my own demise.

And this chain of events formed itself into the widely looked forward romantic comedy scenario, where everything is pathetically hilarious right till the very end even with the absence of a happy ending.

And oh how the end is near.

You got to love a love song, and a delicate love story is just too precious to pass.

And fuck, it's bitching that at the end, I had to write a letter that I know I will never send, a fucking love letter as well. I'm too old for this.

This is how it goes.

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Dear (fill secret name here)

Sadly this will be the first and final letter I write to you, and partially, my heart felt relief.

For someone I've never met, or personally talked to, greeted and laughed with, your sole existence, for precious moments in the history of my life, has become the only thing that matters.

For sure you are poetry, written in times of great sorrows, cited in times of great sufferings, to ease and bring a slight happiness in the face of hopelessness.

A phrase that makes a song a whole.

I believe, and I have believed it for sometimes now, that when you smiled, in one part of the world, a rainbow revealed itself.

Cheesy, but truth is only as far as how much you believe in them, and believing, as facts dictate, does not need a reason.

It has been my destitute to realize that unfortunately, the lock you released did not free me, and life, somehow, is about surviving the disappointments.

I wish time was kinder, but when I realized what my options are, I have to reside in the most logical, that in this final hour, I have to wish you life, filled with passion and joyous moments, and love, you solely deserve, because for me, you have been its sole embodiment.

:')

Farewell October, and keep smiling, for the world,

Yours honestly,

Me

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Or I could simply ask her for a cup of coffee in one green dotted night, be with her for a moment and fuck the rest of the world, because that's just how the way love goes, or life for that matter.

Wouldn't you agree?