A surreal afternoon near the River Thames. The London Eye spins tourists around its wheel. A street market set up on the south bank of the river is filled with vendors selling alcohol, clothing and food to all the people walking by. The sun is out, temporarily placating the dreary feelings these Londoners get when overcast weather lingers too long.
Behind the river, the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben watch over the crowd. The cloudless sky is a perfect backdrop to this festive scene. Around me are cigarette smokers, ice cream eaters, literary readers, painters, writers, children with chocolate on their smiling faces, street performers, musicians, sun bathers and sun seekers. I am in the middle of them, sitting on the grass with an open ale I bought from the corner store.
Has this become my theme? This beer bubble writing? Or does the alcohol play with my emotions like a great composer who steers the stars and directs the sun so that every day spirals into some meaningful song that everyone needs to hear? Like my emotions are worthy of a prize. Like I am the first person to have felt this way. Like I finally have the answer to what love feels like, because I have watched the trash collect at the edges of the river, and think to myself, that’s what love feels like, even though the world buries us all beneath a midden heap of troubles we still have a woman that buries us in love, and that makes all the difference, makes all the difference in this world because falling in love is like reading a spectacular sentence and stopping in the middle to think of the way she loves you, like taking a train ride and forgetting to get off at your stop because she is on your mind, like listening to all the negativity and knowing that you have positivity waiting for you at home, like burning your tongue on a cup of coffee and knowing if she were there she would laugh and call you silly, and you know what else is love? it’s walking through the world and knowing someone cares about you, how profound, that simple thought, how profound to know that unconditional is a word that has actually become real, because she unconditionally loves the way your hips move when you dance, and the way you cannot grow a beard, and the way you bite your fingernails even though it’s a bad habit or the way you watch sports religiously, almost to a fault, and she loves the faults in you because that’s what makes you real, and the best of you is played out every night in front of her before she goes to bed, the way you always bruise yourself by walking into the corner table in that apartment that has become a cocoon of you and her, or how you brush your teeth for only a few seconds and she says you need to brush longer but all you want to do is throw that brush into the sink and brush yourself instead with her arms, and plush kisses, and let yourself find cleanliness in the way she looks at you and says she loves you, like that’s all you ever needed to hear, I love you, wow, those three little words, how nice, how grand, like the chimneys outside blew love instead of smoke, and if she said those words to you on top of the Eiffel Tower or whispered them into a gutter while the rainfall collected there you wouldn’t really care because she said those words and meant those words like she had written in a journal as a child that she would say those words to the man she could start a family with and live a future with like the sunrise was never good enough for her but the man she could love would always be good enough for her even if he dipped his toes too frequently into silliness or spelled his name in an unconventional way, that wouldn’t really matter because why should something as trivial as that get in the way of love?