Stories are supposed to end happily, aren’t they? A beautiful, pure white marriage bonding entirely two over excited love birds together for an unbreakable eternity. That’s just stupid hopefulness, isn’t it? Outright useless, isn’t it?
Are we all diffidently hiding from our now masked pain? Is that blaring weakness? Or is feebly caving in to personal desires without set, determined restriction weakness? Or is simply wanting a beloved, admired someone a foul limitation? Love, it is a excruciating flaw. That I am undeniably, undoubtedly certain of.
Emotions, these ineffectual feelings of dazzling devotion, of fantastic fondness, of appreciative affection, they are all countless mistake. As mortal, imperfect human beings, we strive futilely for an unreachable faultlessness. To somewhat better achieve that never ending goal, I’ve disciplined myself harshly that feelings only get in the way of needed work and your own selfish benefits. It is better, safer, not to love, not to care at all.
But I am only a lacking human.
No matter how many times I continually nag this to my not listening self, repeating endlessly, my voice monotonous and becoming of without life; I have indubitable, unwanted faults.
I do not remarkably embody unreachable perfection.
I am not a stress less, gracious angel.
I can not conquer every minute detail set as an obscuring obstacle in my cluttered path.
And thus, the slight beginnings of my undesirable flaws.
Love is a vain emotion that all unseeing beings long, the blinding feeling of the first cycle completely throwing you into a pitch darkness. Yearning for a simple matching piece to your born broken heart, like a childish game of puzzles, the magic of first falling in love is immensely blissful and uplifting. You feel light with each tottering step you take, wings blossoming and taking you higher into this devouring trouble.
It is the closest us average humans have to magic. And we all aspirate it greedily.
I’m a somber, dedicated writer of various popular romance novels. It’s not just a time killing hobby. It’s not just a delicate, weaving craft. It’s a healing drug for me. It’s something I take seriously to fill the empty void left blankly in my aching heart. And while there’s no left talent for me in other variety fields of profession, I’d gleefully prefer to stay closely by my selected medication. Mind you, I am not an insane person you would meet randomly on grimy streets. I am not a crazy person that’s meant to be locked up tightly in the dungeon like asylums.
There is nothing incredibly wrong with me, really.
Just a huge imprinting depression.
That I block out furiously with pen to vacant paper contact, a clear river of flowing words ebbing onto the handwritten page.
And that’s what I sensibly consider “love”.
Imprudent, silly people, thinking there is actual love in this malicious, wintry world. What is “love” anyhow? If I asked you that sincerely, could you answer me directly, stare me meaningfully in the eye?
There’s no diminutive ounce of love.
None at all.
So, parrying with your defensive question, you might question my experienced intelligence, “What the hell are you talking about?”
I learned agonizingly from my death filled past; once is more than enough.
Why am I choosing to create scenes of faux cheerfulness, of idiotically joy-filled love series?
To somehow quietly fill a worthless hole; and I’m trying desperately to prominently convey an important, behind the written word truth about love, that everyone just blindly ignores. Someone figure it out; I know that we’re not all dumb consumers eating up my works aimlessly. And until that understanding person does, I’ll sit inaudibly, tapping away on a lifeless keyboard, scratching away on a clean sheet of white paper, waiting impatiently for that wise person.
I don’t want to be unavoidably be hurt again, but this emptiness, devours me maliciously inside out. I can’t keep this bare burden hovering above me, covering my immense deep set pain from the world with my worthless, hollow words.
People want gleeful stories, don’t they? Blissful stories sell, don’t they? We all want to shy away from our injuries, don’t we?
That’s why I write. To patch this blackened hole in my tense, upset heart.
Isn’t that just selfish of me? The first author in living history that doesn’t imagine for others, but rather for guiltless self indulgence and much needed comfort? Are all authors as self absorbed? Or only one as myself?
No, I mustn’t denigrate the honorable title of being labeled as highly as an “author”. I respect it too much.
This world has decayed farther than anyone has expected while I sit back unmoving, lost in my own whirling mind, words swiveling around madly as the world falls to chaos. Wars breaking out in mass destructions, people in power stealing from the poor as richer only get ever richer. I bear the trouble of having watched for so long without so much as uttering a sound, my mind blown completely by the cruelties people put their own race, their own kind against. What caused the start of this forceful brutality? Breaking stops all time from revolving around you.
And I’ve broken so many times, fallen from grace numerous times. Countless times.
I write for myself. And no one else.
No one is going to break me anymore.
So I ask you a last time, softly, begging for a honest answer, “What is ‘love’? What is ‘love’ to you?”
Chapter notes: Disclaimer: Naruto is the property of Masashi Kishimoto. No money is being made from the writing of this story and no copyright/trademark infringement is intended.
Chapter end notes: Translations:
Oshiete: Teach me/Tell me.
Kureru: Extremely formal way of saying "please".
Oshiete kureru: Tell me/Teach me please.