Two are destined for each other, it is better never to meet.
But only this is called love. All the rest that claims to be her name is a forgery for the poor, a miserable substitute, a consolation for those who were not affected by the hurricane. Let them think they love you. We know.
There are two kinds of love. You can say that there are a lot more of them - twenty-two, two hundred and twenty-two, as many as lovers - but in fact you can not hide from fate.
With one love, you can still do something, on the other - nothing. One proceeds peacefully and happily, beginning with an acquaintance in his own, cozy, familiar circle. Then a slow movement towards each other, the best wishes of relatives, increasing mutual affection and, finally, a habit. Another collapses suddenly, with all the catastrophic unbearable happiness, with all the heat of instant recognition - crashing down, not sparing and not asking, without giving a hint or protection from inevitability.
The first one ends up safely, with a wedding or a respectable joint weekend with outings for the city or for mutual friends. Anyway - this train is on schedule. The second is uncontrollable, like a rabid express without a machinist, destroys families, overturns hopes, forgets everything, forgets everything, blissfully dismisses everything and never brings it to the good.
Dreaming of such love, dream of everything, except for the successful ending: to anything to waste yourself unrealizable hopes. Sooner or later, lovers, torn out each of their lives by a passionate, inexorable attraction, tired and broken, will return to their places. Around is a world that has lost its colors forever; a desolate landscape of disaster, with the roots twisted trees, shreds of grass, skeletons of swept buildings under a hopeless, colorless sky, which does not already shine.
This passion does not flow serenely: in serenity there is no passion. If fate has removed barriers beforehand without burdening family-lovers, poverty or shyness, love erects obstacles to itself, torments it, drives it crazy with the promise of unbearable happiness, in which one moment two defenseless madmen give up everything except each other. The world becomes hostile to them in the same second as they first meet their looks at a casual party, at a bus stop, in a miserable cafe on the outskirts.
Do not wait for lovers to cause such hatred - they spend a good-natured wink, encouraging a grin. But happy lovers do not know such a passionate exhausting craving for each other, forcing to forget about any decency in the bar, picture gallery or furniture store - let them look, let them see, let them envy in secret, for secretly everyone dreams of the moment of insanity.
Well-off lovers are drawn to each other, because their lives are initially similar. They are united by a common love - not to each other, but to peace, the calculated being and reliable ground under their feet. Not so in a sudden, crazy love, choosing victims at random. These lovers have almost nothing in common, except for one, secret, the most painful string, like a book read both in childhood, or a park, by which they ran to school. They have nothing in common, except for a single, unknown trait, except that, it turns out, there was never anything.
Such love tears off any masks. One was always the master, the other in secret, always a victim. Their meetings are short and casual, caresses are insatiable, during daytime conversations or wanderings all reminds them of the nights. The bed is their fortress, their home, their last and only shelter. It was not and will not be with anyone else - only now, while their passion is forbidden and the future is unclear, although both are guessed of the worst. They know that fate is watching them intently - more intently than for lovers-friends, successful partners in a mutually recognized game. Doomed lovers know that their time is short and the future is sad. They are in a hurry to live the released moment so that they have something to remember when they become impoverished, resigned, broken and devastated.
This love invents its own words, nicknames, conventional signs. She as can fenced off from the world, not allowing anyone to herself. This love is an object of contempt and ridicule. It devastates and destroys. It cripples. It is akin to death. Two are destined for each other, it is better never to meet.
But only this is called love. All the rest that claims to be her name is a fake for the poor, a miserable substitute, a consolation for those who have not been affected by the hurricane. Let them think they love you. We know.