I have fought long and hard with myself over this, and I’ve yet to come to a satisfactory conclusion. Maybe it’s the fact I grew up reading books where love came in many forms, where stories were set in an era where polyamory was the norm, so I never questioned that one could love many and really mean it. Perhaps I saw how easy it was for jealousy to destroy people, and I wanted to erase that word from my dictionary altogether, which I have failed time and time again. But since the first time I said those words and meant them, I never felt at ease with monogamy. It never came naturally to me, it went against all of my instincts.
I often wonder whether it’s foolishness or stubbornness that drives us to go against our biological instincts. I find it laughable that people believe they can fight biology in the first instance. I find it dishonest to pretend that once we are in love, we no longer find beautiful people attractive, and we are forced to lie to and withdraw ourselves, for fear of forming a connection with an outsider and destroying what we have. I find it a pity that we are forbidden to love more, as if one tarnishes the other, as if more love could make what is existing feel less. It seems absurdly selfish to want to possess someone so entirely and declare your love by severing their ties with all others.
Yet I can’t help but find it deeply romantic that there are those who do not waver in their faith, who remain devoted till their deathbed to their one and only. Those who remember only one smile, one laugh, one body, who never wanted to share, never had to, and never will. There are times when I wish I could be more like them, and I wonder if something is broken inside me. I wonder if there is something wrong with the way I love, whether I ask for more because I know that I will never be enough. I crave for a love unblemished and so deeply satisfying that no distractions are required.
But I then imagine a world where my actions are not dictated by a lover’s restrictions, and every connection has the possibility of meaningfulness. I can’t decide whether it would be a blessing or a curse to live with so much freedom and possibility, whether it would dilute the sensations, or dampen the experience of being alive. I so desperately want to love and be loved without boundaries. I’m intrigued by the perversely romantic notion that I could go anywhere, be with anyone, kiss whomever I wish, but come back to the person who feels like home at the end of it all, and know that nothing has changed in the way that we feel for one another.
I want colorful chapters, memorable characters, but one love affair to hold me steady. I want harmless flings, candlelit dinners with forgettable faces, the thrill of discovering you have something in common with someone that you’d never expected. I want all this but to fall asleep in your arms only, wake up to your face only. I see eternity in your eyes only. I want to touch and taste many, but to love you only. I am selfish beyond your understanding. I am hopeless at this game.