Love ain’t for the birds, it’s for the kids; love is child’s play, a juvenile affair. It reduces even mature adults to children of sorts, and perhaps it is some ephemeral vision of childhood innocence that lovers seek in one another’s eyes or grasp for in an embrace. After all, don’t we idealize love in many of the same ways that we idealize childhood? The aforementioned innocence, wonder, adventure, the distinct feeling that everything is possible and nothing will ever get old—aren’t these the qualifying features of a worthwhile childhood or love affair?
Maybe it’s not as poetic as all that. Even if it is, there are certainly negative connotations associated with childhood that are just as prevalent in love; perhaps love can just make grown adults speak and behave like children: petty jealousy, baby talk, mild S&M, etc. Unfortunately, I’m not immune to this either, and I’m as guilty as the next Adonis-With-A-Case-Of-Arrested-Adolescence of waxing playground when it comes to romance, dig?
I suspect that love, at least romantic love, is only possible with a child-like approach. In my experience, love isn’t rational or logical or premeditated; one is not afforded the luxury of choosing when or where or with whom they fall in love. It just happens, and then it’s time to play. You might end up with a scraped knee and a bloody nose, crying on the tire swing because your playmate turned out to be kinda mean, but guess what: there are a hell of a lot of other kids on the fucking playground, and chances are there’s at least one that wants to play hopscotch with you without pushing you onto the blacktop.