First Dating: The relentless muse (short essay, rough)

More ramblings of the heart, they have become my obsessive little muse. There is so much to study, and assess - and these emotions are beautiful and ugly and confusing and exhausting! So what is IT? It is the allure of finding a love that consumes you. The kind that draws you in like the prick to a balloon - slowly at first, but eventually deflating all sense of logic and bringing a dreamy air of possibility to your conscious. It takes you. It feeds you. It changes you. Love pumps venom through your heart and brings life to youthful fairy tales - is Prince Charming real? How many toads am I supposed to kiss? What of those toads - who ends up with them? That first fall will cripple you. Your communications skills, persuasion tactics, and emotional tolerances are challenged. Too philosophical? I am easily lost inside metaphors and unnecessary verbiage. The truth is this: love is a hostile takeover.

A bit more about me: I am an insubordinate asshole. You say black - I say rainbow. You say no? I forge ahead and paint my rebellion in your skyline. Is this a sign of immaturity? A quirk of personality? Sometimes with love I scream, "NO!" I fight. I run. I muzzle my emotion - always without success. No matter the refusal, my heart always wins. I have cussed, and turned my back, and unsuccessfully attempted to spit out this fire. The fire that eagerly tries to ignite its insanity in my heart. Does this make me the Scrouge of love? Probably. But does any writer have a story that isn't bleeding with heartbreak and difficulty? Is pain the muse that propels our pen - or our cursor - into motion?

Hemingway drank and whispered imaginary people into his prose. He seemed to have it right.  Every work of his mind has been regarded as a "revolutionary piece of art" - and it was. It still is. But he was also a drunk that penned his thoughts to paper with self-loathing and whiskey.  Every writer has a trigger, or two, that prompts thought into action. Guess what mine is? Emotion fascinates me. Love hypnotizes, terrifies, and stumps me. I realize that my disgruntled obsession is self-inflicted. I know that the pursuit of understanding such an elusive enigma will pickle my mind and, likely, breed pessimism - but I still think that love is the greatest thing that can ever happen to you. Or to me. Every folly - every fall - every heartache and every single butterfly IS a hostile takeover. How will I choose to submit? Find. Understand. Conquer.

The search continues.