Will you die for me?

What can a lover say to that? When you don’t value yourself much, it’s easy to say yes. I said yes. She didn’t believe me. Her husband would die for her, and seemed to have proved this to her in ways beyond question. It didn’t matter that she claimed that she didn’t love him anymore. The question was, if I was to replace his role in her life, “Would I die?”

I’ve got a problem with dying. Lots of my friends have done it, and they made it seem simple. A bit too many drugs, and the job is done. A short step off a tall building, and it’s done. No more pain, no more worries. But I have a problem. As fucked-up as it seems most of the time, I still love life. I really don’t want to miss anything. And if you’re not here, there’s nothing more to see. I like seeing new stuff all the time.

That doesn’t mean that I’m afraid of death; if I could trade my life for someone else’s happiness, I suppose I’d do it. But if I died, I suspect it wouldn’t make anyone happy at this point. It might even make a precious few sad. Why are love and death so often equated?

This isn’t new. Love is often written as a tragic thing, but I think that’s a bad story to accept. I think it should be a creative thing, not a destructive thing. Maybe I’m just weird that way. But the issues it always clouds are truth and morality. I didn’t see the lies until it was too late. I might as well have been dead when it was over, but I wasn’t. I was still looking at the world through sad eyes, waiting for what happens next.