I have no Spanish dictionary. No offense to those who do. I am not illiterate at the English language, as I guess most of you may be contemplating wondering where the LOVE was spelt wrong. I’ll tell you where? Everywhere its getting used these days, most places at least. An error in the spelling of a word is said to change its meaning, why not vice versa I ask? Why not the spelling be said to be wrong when it’s the concept which is misunderstood.
Lord Alfred Tennyson said, “If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever.” You think the words are too farfetched and unreal? You believe you can alter that statement into something more people can relate to in the present day? I do too. And my way of altering his quote to suit most if not all people today is, ““If I had a flower for every time I fell in love…I could walk through my garden forever. “Mocking me won’t change the fact. 8 out of 10 youngsters have fallen in love more than once a day. I am not being hyperbolic, just stating a fact.
I walk my street of gazing, where I see all and none see me. I see you with a different person than last time. You seem to notice too. I walk the street desolated. Thoughtful. You seemed unperturbed too, almost as though none of it ever happened. You were concerned. Not very. You seemed to advocate the idea of falling in love daily and with a different person. For you the feeling has lost its old world charm. And with modernity, like everything else it has turned adulterated too. The meanings are changing faces at a formidable rate. It seems to be a progeny of your eleutheromania. I see no freedom in your concept of it though, but I am pretty old I think. You asserted your idea of love on me. I remained quiet not because I was convinced but because I wanted to give you the time to convince yourself with your ideas. All I seek an explanation to is since when have infatuation, liking, having a crush, adoring, admiring or even respecting get rephrased to love? You believe I am insane. You have no answer. You bow your head and walk away. End of story.
I am yet not content with the response I get. I move along the same old street. The couples I saw last week have all seemed to change. Is it correctly I see? They have not changed, just interchanged. I speak. You don’t listen. I try to seek attention. You don’t give me any. I move along the same street, marching forward. I see the lady cry. She was pretty, very pretty. Her eyes molten like fire, volcanic eruptions disturbing the peace. It hurt me to see her hurt, even more at the reason of her hurt. Her man wasn’t hers after all and that was her source of distress. She felt guilty of every action she ever associated with him in the name of love. I was pained. She blamed me. I didn’t know why. I wanted to explain to her that actions of the past do not judge your future. They are no testament to your soul. But she walked away too. I followed her silhouette but saw her disappear into despair, darkness. Clouds of uncertainty camouflaged her existence. I could not see her in the mist of vagueness.
I went over her words. She blamed me. Why? I need answers. I see within me. I am clear. No answers in there. I see all around. I see disguises everywhere. Bows with the arrows pointing everywhere, none in the right direction, none the arrow of love, and none the rightful ownders of the bow. I know where it went wrong. I can see how they took it all in their hands. I can see the end. The end to me, my world, my word, my Love.
I think of the consequences, I see many. I think of the solutions, cannot decide on any. I move forward. I see the disappointed young man. He may not be very expressive of his hurt, but he is scarred more than the lady was. Hurt is not measured in units though, so I cannot say precisely how much. I question him of his hurt. He confesses to it, he says it’s harder to say the truth than say blatant lies. I was not satisfied. It was accusing. He explained for the word love for instance. Those in it cannot speak of it, those who are not preach of it with their display of affection. I wanted to help this man. I asked him how. He beamed like he struck a pot of gold. He pointed to a lady in the dark. This time only it looked more serene. I looked. I saw the very pretty girl with molten eyes walk out of darkness, serenity. I nod.
“Keep her smiling please?” he requests. Almost pleads.
I look at him, and back at her. At him. At her. I know it isn’t lost. Maybe abused not bruised. I know it still remains. Deep within the lies are buried truths like these. I stretch my bow. And I know where the arrow is to hit.I am Cupid, and my existence is not lost after all. Beware of the fraudulent- My LOVE is spelt right.