My greatest loves have always been steeped in a complicated combination of love and hate. I hate to love you, but fuck, how I love to hate you. It doesn’t make much sense really, or maybe it makes perfect sense and I’m just unable to rationalize it.
I love the Atlantic Ocean in the winter and the way it feels against me when I’m daring enough to jump into it, but I hate it for not swallowing me whole on command. I love this couch for being something I see in my memories, but I hate it for the memories I associate with it. I love this city for everything it’s given me, but I hate it for the pain, the emotional torture and the fact that I’m constantly in the need to leave it as a means to survive.
It has been “Love/Hate Week” at work. So I came clean and wrote some truths.