That Damn WordRecently, on the cover of a trashy Russian romance novel that I saw on my grandmother's table, I read a few lines that had been taken from the book the cover enclosed: "Marina did not call the feeling love, even to herself. She merely enjoyed every moment of the feeling." I am translating, and paraphrasing, badly because the book is no longer in front of me, but that is the gist of what it said.
Ah, wisdom! Wisdom on the cover of a trashy book! Wisdom in the description of the love one fictional woman feels! I was jealous, profoundly jealous, of this fictional woman. I want to be like that! I want to ignore the social tradition of stating, "I am in love." or "I love you." the moment one becomes cognizant of the fact. What bliss it would be to forget about that horrible, easily misinterpreted, word and simply bask, bask, bask in the feeling it describes!
But, yes, I am in love. And I never fall out of love with anyone I have ever felt the emotion towards.
And yet, how wonderful it would be if I had never said it! How wonderful if that enraptured feeling was unaccompanied by words and the only feeling that I would articulate if I had to was happiness.