Love is stored in the parts of my brain that don’t work properly, but that’s ok! I am trying to make it work for me. If I cannot have organically grown happiness, then I will make myself my own store-bought one, antique vases and brocade skirts to coax my shy amygdala. I will cook my own joy in a lab, like those steaks grown from human cells, bloody and lustful. If I cannot find it within myself, I will find love in other places. It is stored in my friend sending me a photo of a record in a shop that had my name on it, in me bringing cherries to his house, in us eating them together, savouring the flesh stuck to wooden pits and spitting them out. I could live forever in the warmth of other people’s cats, in the spark of strangers’ fireworks. Please tell me I am not alone, and I will store my happiness in you. I promise, it doesn’t take up too much space. It’s just enough for a human to hold.
Featured photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash.