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

What is Love?

emma dee love monologue

A monologue from me to you


I knew love would be something special, you know. I mean, I had never felt it—or anything even remotely close to ‘love’—before, but I knew it would be beautiful, and crazy, and powerful. I mean if people wrote, sang and bleed over it, surely this-thing-called-love had to be pretty fucking spectacular. Plus I had seen enough chick flicks to work out that everyone was pretty fascinated and fuelled by it! I suppose I thought when I’d fall in love, I’d see it straight away, and I’d be set for the rest of my life, you know? That everything would make sense: I would finally understand the reasons behind the love songs, the ‘magic’ in the movies and the vein of infatuation when people spoke of it. Spoke of love. I mean: something universal and so highly obsessed about—all over the goddamn world, in many a ‘new hit single’ … surely love must be pretty damn breathtaking when I felt it too, right?


Well, feeling it, really fucking feeling it, falling and flying into holy-shit-love with someone … nothing can prepare you for that. Nothing. It’s everything, yet not like anything you expected to feel. It is so heart breaking and so bloody beautiful that all of your broken pieces, all of your flaws and all of your fucked up memories come flooding back with such a force that you’re not entirely sure if your heart is being completely ripped apart or being shoved back together; the pieces finally connecting or collapsing. Love is seriously so intense that you feel like you’re both dying and living simultaneously; your heart is freaking out so much, it’s not certain if it is paralyzed or moving faster than it ever has before; if it’s far too alive to know it’s still living, you know? Either way, you decide the odds of having a heart attack are pretty much guaranteed—you figure it’s not humanly possible for a heart to survive such conflict. Because it seems as if you can literally feel every Goddamn beat, and each feels the same: it hurts. It’s a pain like no other you’ve experienced before: are you breathing or suffocating? … are you dead or about to die? Because you, my friend, have no idea, and you can no longer tell which one is truer: if you’re so honestly alive, or so close to death. All you know is that you have found the reason why you have ever lived, why you ever breathed and why you would ever want to breathe your last breath.

You feel everything when you are in love: every past pain, every imperfection, every perfection and every painless pure emotion, too. It’s like connecting to something, to someone, so great and so full of feelings; you can’t understand how they could possibly co-exist in your world. Not even in your wildest, wildest dreams or imaginations could you conceive of such a thing. Such beauty, such honest-to-God beauty, cannot be described until you have felt it. Truly fucking felt it.


And love, my friend, really is as horrible and as beautiful as the songs, and all that love-obsessed stuff, says it is. Except it is so much worse and so much better than anyone—than anything—ever said it would be; than you ever imagined it could be. Because you learn the truth of love: you cannot describe it, or paint, or play it—it can only really be felt. And it’s a feeling so unlike any other feeling in the world.

It’s its own entity, love. It is it’s own fucking life—truly—and you finally realise that the love songs, and all that, although they tried their best to capture love … they failed so spectacularly, you know? You finally understand what their creator must have learnt: that you cannot capture something that can never, ever be captured. And once that realisation is achieved, well: you learn pretty quickly that all we’re really capable of is simply surrendering to it … just giving all we can to love. We cannot explain the essence of it, the wonderment and absurdity of it, no matter how much we try … because the beauty of love is in loving. To capture it, you realise, would show that love can be contained. And love—the universal secret so beautifully shared—is so infinite and so finitely complex that it is beyond us. Truly. It is much too contradictory and impressive for our reason to grasp. One cannot catch the entirety of love in words, or throw it in a love-heart shaped box and say, ‘My friend, I have imprisoned love in here; I will show you what it looks like’. No. Such a thing would be the same as asking my heart if it’s connecting or collapsing: it does not know.


And it seems like love is the same for everyone, you know. And it is, but it’s not. Love is like being let in on an unkempt secret: everyone knows, but only you and one other person know all the specifics. You share it together; only the two of you are fully aware of its depth. It’s not like loving your mum or your dad, your sister or your best friend. This kind of love—real love, or whatever you want to call it—it doesn’t belong to you, but rather; you belong to it. It’s not a part of you, but a part that is all of you. It takes over your entire being—so you, too, become love. First, there was ‘you without love’; and now there is only ‘love’—pure, overwhelming, ascending love—which is so wholeheartedly you. And it seemed like no space, no time, occurred between the two. And when you and love become so incredibly intertwined, well, you feel so cheated for ever having lived without it, you know. You honestly do wonder how the hell you had once lived without love. Yet, still you feel so … bewildered by it. Almost as if love makes you feel as if ‘before love’ you were just living and now, you’re so overwhelmingly alive, or something. Perhaps you might not have been the truest you without love, but you hadn’t been aware of this to be confronted by such a truth. And love makes you question yourself—question everything around you—so much so that you end up completely fucking confused.

How is it conceivable to feel such a feeling for someone, to love more than you ever thought you possibly could … and yet, still feel so inadequate that this love you have for them—which is now all of who you are; the truest you you have ever come to know—might still not be enough to give to them?


That, my darling, is love. And it’s the most frightening and peaceful feeling that I have ever felt—and will ever feel—in my lifetime. I am complete, somehow, and I have found the girl who completes me — and that … such a statement so clichéd … is love — it is everything that has already been said and everything that can never be said, too.

It’s the space in between; the answer to unasked questions; the truth in truth. And it will scare the absolute shit out of you—trust me—but it is love, and it will take you to your deepest, I’m-freaking-the-fuck-out fears. And you will go there, even when you think you’re about to kneel over from a heart attack or crumble into a million bloody pieces … you will go there because you will understand that love needs you as much as you need it. Love compels you to feel frightened—so utterly vulnerable—because it is the essence of vulnerability. It is the substance of all that is, really: it’s what you were born to be and made to feel, experience and become.


And if I’m honest, love hasn’t made me ‘set’ for the rest of my life, like I had presumed. In fact: it has confronted, confused and complicated everything I have ever known. Yet I would feel this magical, maddening feeling again and again and again. I would choose the same girl to love, time after time, after time. In every lifetime: in any life, in the after life and in this life. At any time, every time, in any circumstance and every situation: I would love her, and only her. Because her soul shares the same secret as mine, and the love I have for her is all I am—and it can only ever exist because she does.


And if none of this makes sense to you, let me try to explain it a little clearer … You know one of those commercials; the ones where someone says, ‘I never thought it would happen to me’ and they’re usually talking about the most horrific thing that ever happened to them—like a freak accident, or cancer, or trauma?

Well, loving someone is kind of like that, in a really fucked up way. When you just see the commercial—or what have you—you get really emotional about it, you really do … but still, you’re able to distance yourself from it, even the tiniest bit, because it never happened to you. You feel it, sure; but you don’t really feel it, you know. And love is like that: you never thought such a thing would happen to you—but now it is—and, well you get it now. You really fucking get it. And you really fucking feel it, too. All of it.

And that, I guess, is really confronting, and beautiful, and horrible and powerful. And all of the other describing words in the whole fucking dictionary.

It’s one thing to know the secret; it’s another thing entirely to share it. And to share it with just one other person in the whole Goddamn world … I mean: you just never knew it would happen to you. You just really fucking couldn’t.


And I see those commercials—and listen to love songs and what not—so differently now. Not because love is the same as cancer, or a freak accident or because every love song explains my love (although there certainly are similarities), but because I understand what those people—and the songs, the paintings, the poetry—were saying: you just don’t know it can happen to you until it does. And only then do you really know. Then, and only then, do you truly know and entirely feel it.


That, my darling, is love.

If such a remarkable, wondrous thing could be captured.

That is love.



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