My first love was a fall down the stairs.
One moment I was on top of the world; carefree, as stable as I ever could be, and before I knew what hit me, I was tumbling down all the way. It was almost like when I spun on my axis as a little girl, going round and round till it made me dizzy, faster and faster till the world turned into a blur of colors, unable to stop myself even when my brain told me I should, finally falling to the ground in the process, head still reeling, heart thumping. Blissful oblivion.
Except that in love, when I finally hit the ground, I had bruises and aches in places I had previously not known the existence of, won in exchange for my dearest friend.
They say the first love is the hardest. It is. Even if the lightening strike proves non fatal, it’s a long time before you pick yourself up from the mud, and brave the storm home.
I finally did. I went home, got myself a cup of hot chocolate and started from square one. Or tile one. One by one I arranged the little rectangular pieces of my life into the patterns I chose for myself. Intricate designs in exquisite hues filled the floors of my room, my home, my earth.
Until the fall. Again.
It was pure magic. I watched in awe as they toppled over in enticing ways, the bewitching charm of your own undoing; again, the blur of colors, the dizzy excitement, spiraling into a million dreamy waves before washing up at my feet as a pile of mess.
Once you have known that head rush, there is no turning back. I scurry to get going again, more tiles this time, fashioning them into alluring constellations, watching them crash with ecstatic relish; longer and longer, more colors and decks, over and over, because maybe, just maybe, if I get the patterns right this time, the magic will stay forever.