When one is in love one begins by deceiving one's self.
-- Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance
Love is not just a word to be mindlessly thrown around. There is supposed to be deep meaning behind the word love. It's supposed to mean something great and beautiful, but also something terrible.
Many have yet to realize it. They see the word, but don't see the meaning. They think they understand the concept, but do they really feel it? Do they know it?
How easy it is then to love someone!
The most appalling thing about the use of the word is the vulnerability that comes with it. The vulnerability that seizes and captures a person. It's a horrible situation. Love leaves you defenseless and weak and more susceptible to lies than ever before. It allows you to be exposed to pain and heartache and wounds that scar over.
Makes me nauseated just to think about it.
I understand; you think I'm just a heartbroken fool, who has grown bitter over the years of self-torment from a love gone sour.
I'm not bitter, or heartbroken. I'm learned.
I've experienced this 'love' that the world seems so fascinated with. I'll admit it felt good. It made me feel as if I were in bliss, like the world could be crumbling at my feet, but so long as this boy loved me, life would go on. I was happy, yes, and naive. Yet, was I ever content?
No.
Was I ever satisfied?
Not that either.
Little insecurities were brought to my attention. There was always something more to work on, something to improve upon, something that just wasn't up to par. Love didn't solve all the problems. In fact, it created some on its own.
So when these men tell me they love me within a day, a week, a month of knowing me, I don't feel it's enough. I question their motives and intentions until I've observed so much that it's not like I'm there anymore, and the men move on to find another plaything to infatuate themselves with. And I realize that no, no they did not know the meaning.
I've learned, while they have stayed infants to the term, moving from one woman to the next like nomads on the countryside.
Even when I reminisce, I know I was never truly in love. I was enchanted by the idea of it.
And over the years, I've just been able to distinguish the difference of what it is and what it isn't. I know that there will always be improvements to be made, and I will never be satisfied, as much as I want to believe that I once was. For some reason, I feel the need to lie to myself.
There are times when I want to blame him, my first 'love.' The one whose wedding invite is in my hands at this very moment, which has brought me back to criticising and analyzing the term I promised never to think of again.
This is a wedding invite missing one thing; my name.
The honour of your presence
is requested
at the marriage of
Astoria Belle Greengrass
to
Draco Black Malfoy
When I look at the simple paper in my hands, I wonder to myself, does he know the meaning?
And I should berate myself for thinking this, but I hope that he does not.
A/N: Thank you for reading, but please, I implore you to share with me your intellect and your take on this piece. What is it you are thinking?