Young Writers Society

I do not love you because you are beautiful. I do not love you because you are clever. I do not love you because of your kindness, your humility or your laughter. In truth, I do not know why I love you. Perhaps our souls know something we don’t. Perhaps some untouchable force unbeknown to any and yet to be discovered drew us together like two magnets. Opposites attract. Or perhaps from the moment that we were thrown into this bright chaotic world our paths had already been written. Twisting and gnarled like that of an ancient tree trunk. Perhaps we were connected even before we were born. Perhaps before we were even a twinkle in the eyes of our parents. Perhaps. Or perhaps we are the play things of Gods and monsters, loving and laughing and hating and killing all to make their fat bellies wobble in amusement. Perhaps they will rip us apart and feed us to the lions. Or perhaps they will let us be. Let us live to become old souls, wrinkled and content. Perhaps we are characters in a book. Perhaps we will live happily ever after. Or perhaps we will be swallowed whole, by a gargantuan sea serpent whilst aboard our pirate ship. Perhaps I will be shot during a siege on our castle, and you will hold me whilst the battlements crash down around us. Or perhaps you will be abducted by aliens, and I will fly to the moon and back to rescue you. I would you know. Perhaps we are pieces on a chess board. A vast, complicated chess board, with a hundred million different pieces, all scattered across the board. Are we the monarchs, or the pawns? Perhaps we are puppets in a puppet show. Perhaps we are floppy little material shapes on sticks, dancing for the children who scream with laughter at our oblivious performance. Perhaps we aren’t even real. Perhaps we are just a splinter in the mind of the Cyclops, as he wanders his lonely land. Dreaming of a love like ours. Perhaps we are infinitely tiny. Or perhaps we stand taller than the tallest of mountains. Perhaps we all live on the top of a pin. Perhaps cats can control minds. Perhaps peas are a combination of apples and sweet corn. Perhaps fairy-cakes are made from fairies; no one would ever believe it anyhow. Perhaps the clouds stay still and we moved beneath them. Perhaps all pigeons are actually people who have been turned into birds by an irritable wizard named Howard who suffers from insomnia. Perhaps. And perhaps I just love you, because I do.