Love, In fiction or otherwise

Love, In fiction or otherwise

Half of the people living in this planet carry a broken heart.

Or so I assume.

All around me, hearts are breaking. 
I became judgmental of these people, I realized. Unintentionally, silently, I resent hearing their stories as I thought they were too shallow a problem as compared to the hunger in Africa, civilian wars in some Middle East countries, murders, deaths, and so on.

In truth though,

a heart ache is painful and earth-shattering.

As in the poems and sonnets of age old poets the like of Shakespeare’s or even further past like of Ovid’s, a broken heart is as much loss as with death.

The most classic of literature and art have shown the graveness of this to the point of causing death to one’s own as in Romeo and Juliet

or dying of madness like Catherine Earnshaw in Wuthering Heights.

Too many stories, fiction or otherwise, foretold not a love story 
but a story of love.

I forgot how the words leading to a break up could cause so much pain that breathing and day to day living gets so hard. And it doesn’t heal easily, no matter the covering up. 
Moments leading to healing even, could produce much grieving.

The thought of finally dropping it all, forgetting, moving forward, letting go of memories lived and in a way, letting go of a part of ourselves,

could make the strongest weakest,
the smartest dumbest.

The numbness even, could do it for us.

A great love is a tragedy in a sense; the immense passion brought about by the emotion,
 then loss.

Baneful,
as though we are in the midst of the aftermath of war.

We win when we love, and yet we lose as well. 
I forgot all these.

Ashamed I am,

and sorry,

to have forgotten that in love, we find ourselves both wanting and fearing it.

We love being in love and resent having been thereafter.

 For love,

the greatest of which,

 is a paradox.

One we could never fully understand.

© Sol Felice Alvarado
The Belle Of A BOulevard