The Fervor for Falling in Love

I’ll Tumble For Ya, Photo by BradensEye featuring her fling at McGregor Point Lighthouse

Oh, the rush of a crush appeased! Almost everyone I’ve ever dug into a conversation with about the depths of partnership can agree with me that being in a committed affair of amour sometimes leaves one searching for an escape hatch. Meanwhile, us loners are merely sputtering to secure focused attention from a mutually agreeable specimen. Hungering for my own hunk of love has been this fantasy chase most of my conscious life. I’ve always been a girl who wanted that certain boy’s attention. Whether it was the only (age-appropriate) boy who lived on our street, so slim pickings in terms of my range as a tinier temptress, through to my present stance of sussing which of the interesting men are married or not in order to assess intimate talking rights. Markedly, since many don’t wear wedding bands around the clock on the playground of Earth’s isle. But, the fervor for falling in love shouldn’t have to knock your knickers off, nor leave ya in a tizzy. Love may be as superbly subtle as the ground beneath your feet.

not getting what you
think you deserve
is the greatest gift
you can receive. ~
faraway, you’ll see why later

Romantic relationships are this teeter-totter of balance. The hubbub of having the hots for another human typically satiates the exhilaration plus the exhaustion categories. However, what has braved combat with my loins of late is this awesome dollop of intel I’d been carrying out fairly consistently without ever realizing its layers of substantial detonation. That is, by each act of sourcing more love in my everyday scenery I was solidifying continued eruptions from the core of the spirit with which I aimed to acquire a divine meeting. Talk about some motivational impulsivity! Simply by forming a belief in the courtship of living in love with my surroundings, namely in spite of the countless setbacks thwarting a titanic bumping of the beat I wanted happening inside my heart, I was setting myself up to keep trusting the core of love. My faith in building, no matter the myriad of collapses, lets love remain.

I’m rather well-known for expressing my love. I’m normally driven by this energetic force to show off my adoration in moments where I’m swept up in the fable of a loving instant. Picture me cast against the glistening blue sea, a lighthouse as my backdrop, sunshine heralding the anticipation of a lover suddenly appearing to clasp his lips to mine with a pledge of forever’s embrace. When I’ve not got my man, I often pause to honor the idea of him. In dabbler detailing of this small skyscraper version, we’ll call this my rock-stacking mantra of unsuspecting hindrances determination. Like several dalliances of my past, I carefully constructed a solid tower of my affection. Then, the wind would repetitively whack a few of the baby boulders down the hillside before I’d manage the topper. Blistering heat aside, I didn’t have a bone in me willing to accept defeat. The art of erecting a spectacle of my love withstood the admonishment.

I was looking everywhere you’re right, you’re next to me ~Dov Rosenblatt / Duvid Swirsky / Ami Kozak, Distant Cousins, Are You Ready (On Your Own)

I can’t help my love for a lot of things. I don’t understand how not to appreciate. I’ve got zero recollection of some philosophic learning curve or serious education from my parents to other family, or even my peers. It seems I arrived factory-installed with an intense propensity oriented toward finding love. And by love in the commonist (definitely not to be confused with communist, lol) sense, I mean a hormonally-charged (masculine guy as my) preference with whom I wish to braid my beauties indefinitely. The one I hope to mix all of my universe with all of their universe into one giant universal saucy, sexy, never-ending soup of individualistically-kindred connectivity. Laughter is allowed at this stage. Especially, as I’m writing this to you from my still-solo venturing very ripe age fifty-one. There’s no cuddle-smuggler seated across from me on the couch. He’s not coming home to cook or enjoy dinner with me tonight. Yet, although I’m minus any conjugal happy moaning and dismal fighting (yeah!), I’m grabbing as much satisfaction by the balls as I’m able.

Love is that anomaly in the street-clinché-slang taxonomy. It’s one-way, both-ways, and off-road all the same. The devotion doesn’t have to be shared, as with your self-care, or it may be one to two to three or beyond to a whole community that you involve to aid a desire or need. In full respect, love’s all about autonomy. It’s togetherness and singularity simultaneously. It’s your love of a special someone, the earthy pinecone-laden forest floor, the box of forbidden chocolates, and their love of an entirely separate alphabet you don’t have nearly the synapses to begin to grasp. We’re all worthy of an excess of love. Possibly, some of us exercising enough patience that we’re almighty close to earning the VIP-esque, red-carpet, silver-platter, carte-blanche, whiz-bang, ace-in-the-hole, fairytale-fantabulous, soulmatey-stylish infinity collaboration with that person we’ve been waiting on. I figure that every handcrafted ‘heart’ or action of love I create, such as from our foundation below, is just one additional stepping stone leading my beloved on the path to me.

Follow Me, Photo by BradensEye featuring her handiwork in Makawao Forest Reserve

Try coupling with cupid in whatever ordinary items. May the air you breathe interlace an intercourse of all inches of your body. May its kisses be so sweet that your lungs want to stay married to your liver and kidneys, toe tips to your spleen, and endless fascia seams. I bet you’ll at least enjoy the climax offering of your smile’s simplicity. Draw your heart’s conclusion anywhere you go. Makin’ love out of everything at all.

LOVER of life. Especially people, places, philanthropy and photography.

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