I believe that I am can admit my love. I am a world weary seventeen year old. I am well read, well traveled, well educated and articulate, self assured in my own intellect, and reputed for my steady and rational disposition. I believed, like so many, that love was not something really attainable for one of my age. I scoffed at such deluded youths who proclaimed there love for others, convinced that they were confusing it for lower, more base emotions. And then I met her. And continued to believe this. Once we understood our feelings, we only admitted them to each other, as if we shared a persecuted religion. Then her mother found her diary. Her mothers reaction was understandable for her position, dismay at our intimacy and an immediate tightening of control despite her daughter being mere days away from eighteen. In the ensuing arguments, consolations, and various conversations that went on between her and her mother, then her and myself, love was never mentioned. Not once did she say ‘but I love him!’ and not once did i tell her ‘Our love will overcome it’ (the tackiness of such statements aside). Then i wondered to myself, why? I pondered the subject extensively. And i decided that we were afraid that it might reveal some sort of juvenile ignorance, prove that we didn’t know what we were talking about. Then i decided that others would think this, but if you care about what others say, are you really in love? So, at seventeen, with no shame, I say that I believe i am in love.
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