Do You Love Your Partner?

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Abstract

odium was I then. Much to my puerile chagrin did those supposed affairs crumble, incapable of resurrection. Youth is a lie, I conceded. One must be valiantly vulnerable to cradle relationships, I acquiesced. I am often abstracted to this truth.Long have I waited for a soulmate; however, a phantom is this being. Do you not see the hubris in resigning yourself to such an ideal when ideals are inherently meretricious? No one is born for you, nor you for them. Love is a purposive choice, and it will be remiss of me to believe in a chimera that beckons me to the abysmal dimensions of disenchantment. I refuse to be bewitched by ephemeral affairs, only for the waves of acrimony to wash them away. Wretchedly have I watched the love for my partner diminish. No one is infallible, I suppose. I love her; idiosyncratically is she beautiful. However, that will not suffice such that I burn my peace at the altar of fancy.Obstinately do we clasp that which torments us, thereby suffering miserab

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ly. Is that not masochism? “I am all they have got, and it may be too late to turn back,” is not a salvific rhetoric but a yoke of suicide. One can always turn back. However, I say unto you that it is beneath me to cower in disquiet until my stifled resentment metamorphoses into a vitriolic volcano that will cease to subside. It is craven. No longer will I be human should my partner be at my mercy, for that will kill the ethos of what attracted me to her and therefore my conscience.I do not live by reasons; thus, never have I disputed my love for anything, which is precisely why I detest the question “why do you love something?” “If it grants me peace, I am content,” I always say. To love is to become love itself, and its dissection will be your demise.Notwithstanding the tribulations, much obliged am I for all that transpired lest I am a veteran should history repeat. What can I do but sheath my soul and shield my chest in a war that none can win? Tell me!</article></body>

A chronicle of love

Do you love your partner? Or, perhaps, is your love fantastical? What is it you seek? Is your relationship predicated on reality? Ruminate over these questions, for I assure you that only their answers will anchor you as your partner’s charm wanes and divergent opinions arise. I know not everything, but this I know: it is a perennial narrative.

I had no friends; yet I had partners. Verily, that solely will evince human juvenility. Nonage! Bygone are the times when I had only a cursory comprehension of love and companionship. How could have I known? Devoid of awareness and prodigal of odium was I then. Much to my puerile chagrin did those supposed affairs crumble, incapable of resurrection. Youth is a lie, I conceded. One must be valiantly vulnerable to cradle relationships, I acquiesced. I am often abstracted to this truth.

Long have I waited for a soulmate; however, a phantom is this being. Do you not see the hubris in resigning yourself to such an ideal when ideals are inherently meretricious? No one is born for you, nor you for them. Love is a purposive choice, and it will be remiss of me to believe in a chimera that beckons me to the abysmal dimensions of disenchantment. I refuse to be bewitched by ephemeral affairs, only for the waves of acrimony to wash them away. Wretchedly have I watched the love for my partner diminish. No one is infallible, I suppose. I love her; idiosyncratically is she beautiful. However, that will not suffice such that I burn my peace at the altar of fancy.

Obstinately do we clasp that which torments us, thereby suffering miserably. Is that not masochism? “I am all they have got, and it may be too late to turn back,” is not a salvific rhetoric but a yoke of suicide. One can always turn back. However, I say unto you that it is beneath me to cower in disquiet until my stifled resentment metamorphoses into a vitriolic volcano that will cease to subside. It is craven. No longer will I be human should my partner be at my mercy, for that will kill the ethos of what attracted me to her and therefore my conscience.

I do not live by reasons; thus, never have I disputed my love for anything, which is precisely why I detest the question “why do you love something?” “If it grants me peace, I am content,” I always say. To love is to become love itself, and its dissection will be your demise.

Notwithstanding the tribulations, much obliged am I for all that transpired lest I am a veteran should history repeat. What can I do but sheath my soul and shield my chest in a war that none can win? Tell me!