Love is violence

Love is violence because it rips itself out of the heart, with no tears of remorse. It steals itself from a mind that is not ready to accept it. The body tells them both to shut it like two children in the back seat of a station wagon. The body goes on. The body survives. The body plunges onward. The body has no choice but to chose the first thing and last thing that will continue the human being. Breathing. Going to work. Jogging. Eating. Eating again. Sleeping occasionally. Sleeping a little more than occasionally. Above all, the body takes the havoc and headache of actual love and stuffs it down it's throat to move on. Love is a thing stuffed down a throat without exception in order for real people to live real lives and not have to be bothered with the gushy details of what ifs or maybes, whens or wheres of happy fairy tale lives that never stop crying in the middle where both parties become too old and depressed and despondent to each other because that is what age does to people. The body is to love what a walmart worker is to an actress. Some of us actually have to get up and go to a real job everyday.