The hardest piece of advice I have ever received goes like this: “Never use anyone else to dilute your own loneliness”.

I consider myself a good person, more than most in fact, however I have never been able to adhere to this particular nugget of wisdom. Truthfully I think we all want to be loved, even for just a minute. I always found love to be such an inadequate word, spanning from intense like to a lifetime of devotion. Cocking my head to the left and right I contemplated this funny little word in my head, love, love, love to the point where it began to sound funny, as if it were warped in some way.

I am angry at the word, angry at everything that it holds and holds back. I am angry that I don’t have it, that I have had it, that I have lost it, that I am again looking for it in perhaps all of the wrong places. I inhale deeply once, then again and grip the door making sure to turn off the light before I exit so as to shield the other body in the room from the confrontation of mine in stark light.

Sitting back down I have decided that love is how I feel about this dark room, about the soft music playing in the background and the ideas that have now begun to pool in my head that I must write down later. Love is how I relish in the sadness and the pathetic loneliness of this moment and still have the audacity to think of it as something to achieve as opposed to disdain. That is what love is, loving that which is at its worst or best.

Hate to Love

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