Aimer, C'est Vivre.

It's six in the morning.  I've been up since four, though classes for me do not begin until approximately 11h30.  Why the willing early-bird behaviour?  Sitting here, toilet paper wedged between my toes as polish dries, I have been considering what exactly rousted me out of bed at hours untold.

You see, there's this boy . . .  This boy who had a film job in the City at 5h30.  He is quite possibly the only person for whom I have ever woken so early, so willingly.  (Here my family keels over, feeling vaguely betrayed upon revival.  It's okay -- they have to love me.  *Smug!*)  But this morning got me thinking about the little things, and how much more they mean, and what love means -- at least to me.  Everyone's different.  My mum read a book about the five languages of love, and how we all 'speak' love differently.  One person's love might not be another's, and you have to really understand your partner in order to see and appreciate the difference.  One boy might need Love in words -- he wants to hear your lips shape the 'I Love you' explicitly.  His girl may not be the verbal type, and she tells him that he's Loved by folding his socks into quirky origami when he forgets to do laundry.  (I don't know, you come up with something!)  If they don't see their partner's unique expressions of the heart, they won't feel Loved.

For me, Love is so many little things.  Love is when he keeps a hand on me at practically all times, to the point that grocery shopping can become a Cirque du Soleil affair.  Love is when I'm moody and irritable and get mad over stupid merde, and he accepts my five-minutes-later apology and even makes me feel better about hormonal fluctuations (and gives me a deep-tissue massage when the bottle of Aleve runs out).  Love is getting lost on the London bus system after midnight, when I'm so frustrated I'm useless and crying, so he takes over and gets us safely back to the hostel with three hours of sleep to spare before our train.  Love is him waking me up in the middle of the night after a drinking binge to take off my shoes because they look uncomfortable.  Or carrying me back to the hotel while I sing with hobos.  Love is him accepting my 'you-wanna-be-a-couple' invite when we're both dressed up at a Tacky Christmas Sweater party.  Love is how he still kisses my hand/nose/chin/forehead/hair/cheek/ear after all this time.  Love is how he calls me 'ridiculous' and tolerates my girly insanity so well (whether of the handbag-obsessive or 'she was checking you out; I will kill her' variety).  Love is waking up next to each other just to get back into the other person's arms so you can fall asleep again.  Love is seeing flaws and Loving more as a result.

I should wake up early more often.