The funny thing about taking a class centered around the phenomenon of love is that you start to think about love much more objectively and often.

The funny thing about reading more poetry is that you start to view life in verse.

Put both of those things together and you’ve got a full-blown, cheesed out disaster on your hands. That disaster is currently me.

Hi, my name is Kallie.

Today two things happened–I slipped and fell supremely hard in the morning, and almost cried in class in the afternoon.

And I went to Costco, but that is something entirely different.

My professor of said class said something that just resonated with me so entirely that I was suddenly overcome with emotion and had to fight back tears without consciously knowing why. What is it that he said you might be wondering, and seeing as I exist to satisfy your desires I will comply and promptly inform you.

He essentially said that when you love someone, they inhabit you. They are always with you no matter where you go, and everything that you experience you do so together, physically or otherwise.

He moved onto other related topics and as I glanced around the room all I saw were typical glazed expressions of young adults yearning for freedom from class. I resonated so fully with this idea, however, that I began to jot down my thoughts regarding the concept.

As I wrote, new worlds of realization unfolded before me. If loving someone gives them residence within a portion of your being, then the removal of that person (whether it be a romantic partner, a mother, a friend, a pet, etc) from your life could be equated with an amputation. This amputation hurts in that particular way that we all recognize but is essentially indescribable through language. If you removed an arm, or a liver, you would be given massive doses of medication to stamp out the pain but those afflicted with this disease of being go without such assistance. You might feel that phantom limb perpetually haunting you, an ache for a piece of you that is no more.

It is comforting in a way, to realize that losing a loved one–of any nature–is essentially amputating a portion of your being, yanking out a necessary appendage. It makes me feel better, no doubt.

The following are responses I wrote for aforementioned class:


When you are with everyone but me,

you’re with no one

When you are with no one but me,

you’re with everyone

Instead of being so bound with with everyone,

be everyone

When you become that many, you’re nothing.



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