A petite mess of style and substance. A Melbourne writer. A controversial bitch daring you to see our world differently.


emma dee on LOVE

I suppose I can string together a sentence better than the average girl: I’m a writer after all, right?

Well, even just trying to find the words that describe love … you figure out pretty quickly that there are none. That you can write the most poetic, brilliant sentence that you have ever written, ever gave breath to in your entire life, but still, it’s not enough. That even a masterpiece—a perfectly dictated prose or what have you—isn’t able to adequately capture love. It’s just not enough, you know. And that, to me, is the most beautiful and heartbreaking thing of all. Because it forces you to realise that even your best qualities aren’t enough for love. That there’s something better than the best, something so unbelievably infinite and pure, that you recognize how extraordinary it is that human beings—so fallible and flawed—can possibly experience something so perfect, something so magnificent: how we can experience something we will never understand, you know. And this realisation makes you feel so goddamn inadequate—and yet so wholly complete—if such a contradiction makes sense at all. When you experience love—real fucking love—you feel so remarkably alive, yet so close to death. How then could you write about such a thing—such a thing that is all there is and ever will be? That love is really everything and so unlike anything else?


Show me the words, and I will tell you about love. Show me the words, and I will string them together for you, if you like. But show me the words, and I will know that you have never experienced love, real fucking love. Because such things do not exist, my darling. Such words do not exist when love does. It is as simple and as complicated as that.


And if that feeling, this incredible entity we call love, can make you feel all of this—how then could you possibly describe the one you love? Not only do they give you this intricate, beautiful life form—love—they, too, exist as their own life form: a human, a living, physical being who is as equally fallible and flawed as you are. And they alone contain more than love does. You realise that they are more than love; more than everything and anything that has ever existed. You love them, not only for letting you experience such magnificence—such love—but also for who it is they are: you love them more than love. For they are love, and yet they are their own soul, their own entity, too—and the love you have for them is far greater than simply love itself. Such power and magnificence to exist in one person, and to feel love for them too; well, it’s enough to drive you bat-shit crazy, I tell you. Bat-shit crazy in the most beautiful, complicated way I have ever known. To say ‘I love you’ or ‘I am in love’ is so deeply understated it becomes utterly meaningless. It is far too simple, yet far too convoluted, to say such powerful words that capture so little.




You, and you alone, are more than love—and love, my darling, cannot be captured or described.


That is how much I love you.




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