Love is a putrid open wound. It’s fun to look at, but it gets in the way of things. I’ve listened to Whitesnake more times in the past seven months than I’ve written. I can’t find anything unique to focus on. I’ve turned into Mrs. Doubtfire with a hungry writer trapped under the fake face instead of Robin Williams. It’s exhausting.
And sweaty. I want to rip my clothes off in the Humanities bathroom, redress, and turn into someone else for a night.

I tried searching “how to maintain being excited” on Google and found a list of steps. It’s drabber than the problem.

There’s an entire section on how sorrow and joy are mutually exclusive—damn straight. I didn’t think it was possible to be so happy that it’s draining. But it is.

As Doubtfire finally starts short-circuiting, I can tell that I’m losing it. Whatever it was. What could I write about now?

Buying tape that sticks to itself on Amazon? Cooking dinner? I feel like those middle-aged guys you see in grocery stores that never end up actually buying anything.

That just stare at virgin olive oil and jugs of pomegranate juice for 30 minutes to get away from their wives.

Not to say that love is not a beautiful thing. It frees an essential part of your soul before it traps the rest. The part that doubted the intent of the universe or the purity. It exposes a palm that contains a world unrecognizable in its holiness. Forces every finger of darkness from the fist until the good parts spill out. The open sore made acceptable by a new sweetness. But my brain is taking a hit while the other parts thrive.

I’m not sure who said “love heals all wounds,” but they were disgustingly optimistic. And wrong. Love shreds you. It pokes the rotting wounds with a stick until you admit they exist.

Or you run off to the grocery store. The bar. The races. To drive around the block until you’re driving around the town, the state, the country.

Until you’re ready to admit that the bad is worth it. The love is worth it. And your soul drags you back, by the chains, to your home.

Discarding the key, submitting to the lull, to throb with the pulse of another ready to die boring with you.