Love is a novel. There’s the beginning—it’s exciting, it’s fast—you get caught up in the characters and their lives. Next thing you know, you’re flying with them; you’re crying with them. You can’t turn the next page fast enough—you ache to put the book down. Each page lights the fire in your soul—takes you away from your world and drops you in the middle of an adventure. The words—the passion—are effortless—you absorb their meaning.
After awhile, (if the book has an extra cover) it starts to wear. Did these pages have numbers before? I’m still on Chapter 12? You go back, hoping to find the excitement of the opening pages. You forget why you started reading in the first place. Did you pick it up because you’ve never read anything like it before, this book that is now so slow and dreary that it takes energy to understand the words. It’s hard work, this book. You become indifferent to it—it’s just a book: put it high on the shelf, throw it away—get a different one. You’re young…you deserve a book that’s fun.
You talk yourself out of putting it away. You invested the time into it—the money, the energy—why not finish the damn thing. You’re content to see it through without understanding what it meant—or means—to you.
You push through. You go back. You re-read the places that you didn’t understand. You hit a plot. You pick it up—and you fly. You got into a pattern of reading and processing but never understanding. Never loving the words—the verbs and adjectives that made you want more before. It’s hard. Love is hard. Love is realizing that nothing will ever stay the same. It challenges you to want to leave, to want to give it all away. It’s a challenge. Love is re-reading the good and turning over the bad—it’s trying and fighting and tearing at the chapters of your life in order to understand the pages and the moments that make you, the dog-ears that mark the change. It is a good book. It is a good love.
Here’s to Part III.