I never would have described myself as very romantic, yet something sparked a new side of me earlier this year. It began sometime in the late winter months during a trip to Dublin. A beautiful, mossy green heart popped out at me from a tree trunk – a natural carving. Perfection.
I flew back to Barcelona and while sitting on the bench waiting for the train to take me from the airport to the city center, I noticed a brown paper bag crumpled into a familiar shape on the tracks. Oh damn. Another heart. And what a curious design! Walking to the market the next day I dodged the usual brown smelly dog smudge in the street, and to my surprise, and fear, I looked down to find that an unexpected footprint turned it into that horrid love shape. I looked around for video cameras. Surely I was being set up.
And so it started. This whole “I see hearts everywhere” phenomenon. When I say everywhere, I mean everywhere. Stains on coffee cups. Reflections on oil and vinegar jars. Water spots in the street. Raw tuna. Hearts. Everywhere. For months and months. The symbol I once hated and found so cliche started its blatant attack on me. And I surrendered.
Around the same time I bought a new journal to jot down notes and quotes from books I read. As it turns out, all the books I have read this year mainly deal with love, relationships and sex (oh, and vampires). So that is what I write about in the journal. Somehow, and I’m not entirely sure how it happened, I began to refer to the journal as my “love book.” Every word, thought, dream or image of love now goes into that little book I bought at a flea market in Thailand. It’s sickening. I make myself want to barf just reading back through it.