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They say writing is therapy, so I had better start cultivating the use of my pen
As an experiment,
the doctors gave me a heart for a brain when I was born.
Like the creation of Frankenstein, but with a penchant for singing the blues and the eyes to prove it, “Love” was my first breath, my first step, my first word.
In kindergarten, as we learned mathematics, all I could understand and fathom to the answer for the
equation 1+1 was “love.” And when asked what makes the world go ‘round, it wasn’t the laws of physics or the dynamics of the sun and planets, but love.
“Juliet, what do all humans need to survive?”
“What is the most abundant element in the world?”
But as I’ve grown older, the questions have become more difficult and my answers don’t seem to suffice anymore.
“What is the first step towards dismantling various systems of oppression?” “How do we lessen the gap between the haves and the have nots?”
I have had and have had not, but this four letter word which has been the foundation of not just my existence but my choice to live intentionally, is causing complications in my head and chest (And I’ve
become immune to these pharmecutical heart menders).
"Teach her," but Teacher, I can’t give you the “logical and sensible” answer you want because I’m too emotionally invested in every word that I claim as my own. I
can’t see or understand this cold reality that has been constructed because I was force fed anthems about how there ain’t no mountain high enough to keep me from you and that all you need is love.
These four letters, this one word, this endless story, this
international song- “Love, love, love” has been something I have dreamed of since conception, an obsession for possession that’s never been mine to safely and proudly hold.
But I still think in terms of dedication and converse in regards to vulnerability and openness. I have to believe that “what the world needs now is love sweet love” or else all of these words become senseless and naive, rather than hopeful, optimistic, and willing. I can’t walk around with my hands in my pockets anymore because they are too full with wishing pennies and shooting stars, so I step with my eager fingers, searching for other fingers and smiles and laughter and fragility and hurt and joy and hearts. I have to believe that love is a many splendid thing, that love CAN make these mountains move because even though they say love is blind,
love has proven to be the most effective prescription for my clearer vision.
However, sometimes my sight becomes clouded by a mixture of ingrained insecurity and tears, and I fall. I still have bruises that have yet to fade. But I’ve come to learn that these stumbles, sticks and stones may bruise my heart and break my bones, but love will always
And I’m still learning.
Arlington Heights, Illinois
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