The Difficulty of Love by Jose Pinell

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
To call this a short story seems like cheating. There is almost no story here, just a nameless character and his brief musings, and the woman he loves, who will also remain nameless

Submitted: October 30, 2011

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Submitted: October 30, 2011



The difficulty of love, he thought one late evening, the difficulty of love is not whether you are being corresponded, whether your feelings are accepted or not. Whether the eyes of the societal world looks on you approvingly, nodding at those movements that are fueled by the core, raw, instinctual motions of love. It is not whether she smiles at you, or pays close attention to your words. It is not whether she answers your calls or messages, or greets your eyes with the same softness that meets her's. It is not even if your jokes are understood, or even misinterpreted. No. The difficulty of love comes not from those secondary notions, however unfortunate they are for the lover.

The difficulty of love comes simply from loving. It is in you. It is your selfishness and ego that forces you into tumultuous waves of emotions, where a passive-aggressive demeanor is present in cues of her sighs. It comes from the sacrifice inherent in loving, where self gratification is ignored out of the sheer impulse that compels us to accept the fact that we love her, and we couldn't do otherwise.

Love is not merely poetic, full of bright roses and the sunny ambiance imagined by the collective culture. Love is messy, its beauty is fought in war. It's preservation depends on tears and blood. It survives in pain, where it can nourish and even blossoms to unsuspecting heights. Love is angry, sometimes even violent.

Love is expressed in expletive terms, in the anger of the lover disappointed after long and arduous days of walking in its unforgiving fields. There is nothing more painful than love, so much so that the apparent sweetness of hate is always the smoothest road to choose.

Love is perhaps the most difficult thing we can ever accomplish. It never comes on time. It never comes late. It simply comes.

Love, he thought one late evening, is the most illogical thing in this world, because if it wasn't, its perfection would come easy to us.

And then he saw her and was awaken from his thoughts. She passed through, and simply said, in a monotonous way, “have a good night”.

The difficulty of love, he returned to his thoughts, the difficulty of love is not her, it is me.



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