The Meaningless Loves

As she makes her way home, I shout the first stupid thing that comes to my mind. The black-clad, slim person with the white sneakers, marked by life, turns around once more, grins, shouts back, and raises her hand. The smoke from her cigarette dances in the otherwise clear air. I look after her only briefly, open the heavy glass door, and once again enter the building which is bursting with dreams of strangers and, in the past months, has turned into our refuge from the mostly noisy, chaotic, and abandoned-by-all-good-spirits world outside. There is no worse feeling than being in love with someone I shouldn’t be in love with.

This love has no meaning, no future, and thus no value. I try to find arguments for why it would be much more logical if I had no affection for the impudently grinning girl. But there is nothing to be said for not wanting to dive into this body. How could I resist her sober, disarming, and perceptive charm? She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s sassy. She’s either glowing with energy or apathetically sinking into her thoughts. I collect every new detail about her life, like pieces of a puzzle, which, when assembled bit by bit, create a lovingly decorated and partially scarred treasure map that I can use as a guide to discover ever more adventures, memories, and inspirations.

No matter how meaningful I think my existence is, it’s nothing compared to the shows that are playing out in front of my mind’s eye. There is no worse feeling than being in love with someone I shouldn’t be with. But I’m happy about it. This emotion can turn into a treasure trove of ideas. Meaningless love is a bittersweet gift from which I can gain a lesson about myself and the people around me. And hope, no matter how small it may be, dies last. Sometimes that’s all I need to keep going in this mostly noisy, chaotic, and abandoned-by-all-good-spirits world that is waiting for me out there, in front of these light-flooded halls.