Last night, I was walking back home at 2 am and a sleazy man from across the street yelled out after me “Baby, you smiling like you could be in love!” and I felt very gross for the rest of the night. This morning, though, I was thinking about it, and I realized, well, maybe he wasn’t so wrong.
Of course I’m in love. I’m always in love, because I know what it feels like not to love. I’m sad and miserable a lot of the time, but I’m alive and I’m in love with the fact that I’m alive. I’m in love with the memories of all the times I wished so hard that I wasn’t, when I tried so hard not to be, and I’m in love with the fact that they’re only memories now.
I’m in love with sunlight and the cold wind and the smell of petrichor because I remember when I didn’t see the outside world for months on end. I’m in love with the warmth of human touch, whether it’s a friend or something more, because I know I can be in love with it, I no longer recoil at the mere possibility of touch. I am in love with my body, even when it’s lumpy and imperfect, even though it holds reminders of all the ways in which I’ve damaged it, because it loved me even when I hated it.
Of course I’m in love, God damn it. I’m in love with the stream that rises off my coffee in the morning and I’m in love with crunchy leaves under my feet and I’m in love with the words in my head too. I’m in love with every tiny little thing that I appreciate so much because it’s truly beautiful to be alive and to be able to experience the world.