You know that scene, you've seen it in the movies and you've read it in the books, where the leading man has a flashback of his dead lover? And the flashback is about bleach-blond beaches and white, glaring suns and stiflingly blue skies and there's so much light which I guess is a cheap symbolism for love?
I never had such flashbacks.
No matter how hard I tried to capture the moments, no matter how hard I tried to bring up the past, I had no such memories. My flashbacks were blasts, screams of blame. They made me feel no warmth, just a cold, bleak sense of dread.
Sure, I believe in love. I just acn't believe that love can exist in terms of reality. It's something you make up when you're lying in bed at night, hug a pillow and try to convince yourself it's someone else's body (or, hugging someone and trying to convince yourself it's just a pillow, guess it works both ways). Or it's someone you make up from little bits and pieces you see and you like: a mouth releasing smoke, a pair of eyes, a body of your liking, a cute little ass. I'm afraid true love is about safety, a primal reaction to a primal fear.
I'm afraid I was never much of a loving person. Unless love was in someway linked to mortality and death. Which brings me to my next question...