My heart fluttered like butterfly wings. A cold sweat broke
across my palms and my mouth dried like the desert. Electricity sizzled in my
veins. My stomach summersaulted in excitement. Joy blossomed in my chest and my
lips couldn’t help but upturn in response.
Love. That’s what I’ve read it to be like…
Never having felt its breadth firsthand, I soak in all the
description from the multitude of novels I read. I dream of coming down with
its disease.
But I’ve been told reality is cold and hard. It won’t allow
for the fluttery feelings the love of fiction brings. They say it’s not a
picture perfect as in the stories. They say that love is just a romanticized
fantasy.
I don’t want to believe them. I want excitement. I want
joy. I want my heart to race like the carefree galloping mustangs. I want
fireworks to explode when I’m kissed. I want my skin to sizzle with electricity
when he holds my hand. I want the love I’ve read.
Sure, I understand life can’t be exactly like fiction,
relationships do take tons of work, but I don’t want the dead and boring. I
don’t want to believe love is so stanch and strict. Why is it unrealistic to
dream of being swept off my feet? And I don’t mean that has to mean I have a
knight in shining armor that rescues me from disaster, but a man who brings me
flowers because he thought of me or he buys me a book he knew I would love or
any other small romantic gesture.
I don’t want to believe in this realistic love that I have
been told about recently. If that’s all love truly is, then I want no part of
it. I would rather be forever alone than have to experience the terrible
sounding love they are claiming is the real deal.
I just can’t accept that’s all it is.
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