Sometimes, it seems so petty to be in love.

With a dream, I take the escape to be with you because in the tangible world, the only palpable thing is the gap you and I have made. But it feels terribly human to be in love: this seemingly trivial yet powerful abstraction that fuels, that fills, that overcomes. But that love might only be existing in the mind, where it is truly abstract and intangible, because when I woke up, my bed was empty of you, the news was classically filled with tragedies, and the heavy traffic was drawing excruciating lines of sweat down the small of my back.

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What heavy burdens when all I want to do is remember how for a moment you and I were real; we were real.

In the news, there are crises that we can’t seem to control – bombings, murders, and suicides, hatred that has led to violence, deceit and corruption – but they are all man-made. It seems so inhumane, inhuman: the technology that people have made to satiate our cravings for power, for control, to dig deeper, to rise higher. It’s bestial.

But what makes a beast when we have domesticated some, have called others friends, and still have others help us in our daily activities, feeding our stomachs and making our chores easier since time immemorial? To be human is worse than the worst beasts. They love better than we do, only being vengeful when provoked, violent when threatened, territorial when trespassed. Only hungry when empty. Carnal, but that’s natural.

You love animals. You keep them in your bedroom, in pages of special editions and coffee table books. You ask Snoopy and Hobbes to lull you to sleep, to share jokes, and to become each other’s privy to cosmic secrets. They tell you seemingly simple things, unfiltered thoughts, and emotions that are too raw for some to be considered true. They touch the depths of you, beyond what I could ever dream of discovering, and they make you and what I love about you.

Sometimes, love makes beasts of us. Our terrible love for something we believe in has made us savage: wanting to turn insides out, to trespass nooks and crevices, to experiment on limits, to see others not akin to us dead. We have waged too many wars for purposes so petty, so impractical, and something that’s just an idea: love, apparently; an overwhelming devotion to a truth has made killers and death-dreamers of us.

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We’ve redefined what it means to be human, redefined what it means to be in love.

So, sometimes, I just want to leave this reality of sadness, hate, and bloodshed. I want to be petty, thinking I’m in love in the dream I have of you and me, of us, thinking we’re in love. Because maybe that’s what’s keeping me tame if not human.