“At the heart of love isn’t words, it’s action. It’s simple. We all are worthy of it, and can give it. And that’s far from complicated.”
-Keith, creator of The Pillow Talk Project

We know what we want. Kinda.

When I was in high school, guys would pay me to write their girlfriends love letters. They’d tell me what they wanted, and I’d make sure they got it.

It started by accident. I wasn’t the most organized. Papers were scattered everywhere in my book bag. It’s a wonder I managed to do so well in school. A guy must have been looking over on my desk when he noticed a poem. He asked if I’d written it. When I said, yes, he asked if I could write one for him. It took me off guard — I wasn’t exactly in the business of writing love letters to guys. But when I asked him what it was for, he said it was for his girlfriend. He wasn’t a jackass, just a player. And he knew the power of words on girls. In another life, he must have been a recruiter because he had an eye for talent. I told him I’d try and bring him something to school the next day. I did. And then he never stopped asking.

It didn’t become a major money maker or anything. But the more guys would ask, and the more that guy would return, they would always ask the same thing, “How did you learn to write like that? Can you teach me?” I’d shrug it off, not because I was cocky — I actually considered myself to be a shitty writer. But also because I had no idea. I was a virgin, short, skinny and the opposite of sexy.But I knew how to listen, and that made me special. Not special enough to sneak a hand up a girl’s skirt and her say stop, while pulling further. But special enough to know that as teenagers, there was one truth: we were all liars.

For many of us, we’d grown up helpless. Invisible. Even ugly. And for some, puberty swooped in and made a mess of things, they became bigger all over (or in the only place that mattered) and everything in their body wanted to feel something they’d never felt before. As teenagers, we were slaves to our own bodies and helpless to stop it, especially when we were honest enough to admit we all wanted the same thing. Yes, we threw around terms like boyfriend, girlfriend, love and loyalty. But none of knew what they meant. We got a kick out of playing house like our parents, but really only wanted the benefits.

We want love. We want sex. More love and more sex.

We’ll never admit it, but not much changes after you’re in high school. Whether you’ve had all kinds of wild and crazy sex, or you’re still a naughty virgin hell-bent on hitting your own spots, you’re still searching for that thing that makes you feel like you have meaning. And what’s more purposeful than a riotous orgasm? The moment where your body shakes, your toes curl, and you curse like a sailor (or shriek like a whistling teapot) reminds us that, although there’s a lot of fucked-up-dedness in the world, there’s heaven on earth in the body of another, no matter how short it lasts. We want to feel it over and over, and sometimes it haunts every crevice of our waking mind. And we let it because we want it.

When you’re good at sex, you have power. You can distort another person’s reality. You can make other bodies feel (and say) things. Using yourself as the tool, you can “make love” and convince another person that you’re the right one. And you deserve to be the only one. And if you’re really good, they make that possible. But even the best sexual connoisseurs can be frauds. Why? Because we all are.

There’s a reason we run from the abyss within ourselves. It isn’t the absence of love that scares us, it’s the uncertain, all-encompassing truth that comes with it: it’s okay to be ourselves.

We sell versions of ourselves that are adept at creating pleasure, while ignoring the parts that are completely broken. We’re glass mansions built on haunted ruins of disappointment, heartbreak, and trauma. We’re better at sex than talking because it fills the silence, and we never have to face ourselves. In the blanket of pleasure, all is forgiven, temporarily. In the waters of paradise that soak sheets and break headboards, we feel refreshed and made anew. But we aren’t. The sooner the feeling wanes, we’re playing that person’s body with a vengeance.

When we can’t find salvation in the soft and hard spots between us, we jump ship. Some call it heartbreak, some call it freedom, but most of us call it pain. But it’s not the kind of pain that forges greatness. It’s the kind that nags on with no end until we drown it out with more sex, or other forms of pleasure. For those who are lucky, they eventually shatter the mansion, excavate the ruins, and find meaning and beauty in what’s been there all along. But for most, we jump from ship to ship until we’re eventually stranded, and forced to face the truth: The only path to love is from within.

We love complicated. But that’s one thing love isn’t.

There’s a reason we run from the abyss within ourselves. It isn’t the absence of love that scares us, it’s the uncertain, all-encompassing truth that comes with it: it’s okay to be ourselves.

Many years ago when I was recovering from heartbreak, one of my friends shared his definition of love. He said that it isn’t the pretty, prim and proper image we see in Disney fairytales or our favorite movies. It’s more simple. If we were to personify love, he’s the roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-dirty kind of guy, or the pull-my-hair-back-and-wrestle-you-to-the-floor kind of girl. There’s nothing pretty or easy about it. It pushes and pulls, gives and takes, forcing us to grow, even when we’re unwilling to. It’s stronger than our nature because it’s our purpose.

I eventually stopped writing love letters for other guys. It wasn’t because of a heavy conscience. It was about the closest I got to romance back during that time period, and I got a kick out of it. There was a deeper reason: No matter how smooth of a writer I was, it was never enough because at the heart of love isn’t words, it’s action. It’s simple. We all are worthy of it, and can give it. And that’s far from complicated.

What do you think? Is love as complicated as we make it? Share your thoughts in the comment section below, or tell me directly by sending me a message.