Virginia Woolf, A Room Of One’s Own

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The Lie

You love her. You know you love her. Like you've never loved anyone else- anything else. She's so fucking lovable. Your heart swells at the sight of her, beats faster. Butterflies in your stomach. Euphoria tugs at the corners of your mouth. The room just lit up when she walked through that door. She's so fucking lovable.

But

"I love you too." There it is. The lie you knew would come. Of course it's a lie. How could she love you? How could something as dirty, as tainted, as sinful, as a lie come out of her mouth?

But

Of course it's a lie. She is so fucking lovable. She is easy to love. She doesn't take time to love. She doesn't take effort. Thought. Strength.

To love her is to breathe. The air filling your lungs, the adoration filling your heart- they're one in the same. To love her is to breathe. To live.

But

You. You are not so lovable. You are smoke in the air. To love you is to choke. To claw at your throat and gasp for air. For her.

You've suffocated others enough to know this. Of course it's a lie. How could she love you? How could anyone?

Not even you can.

“Saintliness is the negation of life through heavenly hysteria. How does one negate life? Through uninterrupted lucidity.”

— Emil Cioran, excerpt from Tears and Saints

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