I’m considering writing about falling in love. I know it’s not a fresh topic, but consider this a remix from me to you.

Falling in love is difficult, especially when that love is unrequited. Everyone knows this. It’s been written and spoken and sung about since language first began, since the apes climbed down from the trees, since the fish crawled onto the land, or perhaps even before. I would not be surprised if single-celled organisms have discussed love in great detail. Really.

I’m writing today to let you know that I’m lovesick. Really truly. I’m so in love that it causes physical pain, and it’s getting worse every day. Isn’t that the most beautiful illness that you could possible dream of? But it’s true. It’s lovesickness with a dash of insomnia; I have been sleeping for forty days, and I know that I’m sleeping because this dream’s too amazing. Truly.

I’m in love with so many people, and so many aspects of people. I’m in love with the friendships that I have recently developed and rekindled. I’m in love with him, and him, and her, and him, and her, and I’m wholeheartedly in love with you. Often, when I talk to you, and you say something clever or poignant or beautiful or offhand or true, I feel a sharp pain in my stomach, a sort of insatiable adoration hunger. Often, when you say these things, when we make eye contact across the hallway, when you laugh at my stupid jokes, I feel like I need to hug you or explode. But I can’t hug you, naturally because… because why? I don’t know, because I’m scared. Because you might not like that and then we won’t have really nice moments like this one. So I hug you mentally, with my entire heart, and smile an enormous crocodile grin, and hope I won’t explode from all the love energy bottled up inside.

I’m in love with people, with their words and actions and emotions. I’m so appreciative of every kindness you show me. I appreciate the CD you burned me, and the bag of chips you split with me, and the compliment you gave me. I appreciate the jacket you lent me, and the photograph you showed me, and the way you held my hand when I needed it. I appreciate your text message about nothing, and your tolerance of my madness, and the way you read my blog even though I have nothing to say.

I’m in love with you, but not only you. I fall in love with strangers every day. Photographs by Lewis Hine and Andre Kertesz, poetry by Bukowski, prose by Kurt Vonnegut and Margaret Atwood and Jonathan Safran Foer. I’m in love with Ira Glass, with Andrew Bird, with Tina Fey, with fictional characters and the writers behind them. I’m in love with the boy who smiled at me in the post office, with the barista who gave me a free shot of espresso, with the freshman who held the door open for me. I’m in love with the elderly couple holding hands, with my cousin’s baby, with anyone who teaches me anything about life, about happiness, about hope, about anything.

I’m in love with places, and ideas of places. I’m in love with the concept of going to college. I’m in love with the idea of riding my bike from the film school to the dorms, with driving to LA or Disneyland or the mountains or the beach. I’m in love with working at the BBC in London, of working Sundance in Utah, of living in Spain for a semester. I’m in love with Greece and New York and Portland and Canada and wherever the Olympics are currently being hosted. I’m in love with doing things I’ve never done but always wanted to do: I’m in love with being in a band, and with learning languages, and with traveling across Europe. I’m in love with majoring in film, with making documentaries and sitcoms and Oscar-winners. I’m in love with minoring in dance and television and English and Spanish and psychology. I’m in love with vegetarianism and moderate hipsterism and speaking really well.

I’m in love with communication, every type. I’m in love with this song and that song, and the way that these songs make me laugh and cry and understand the abstract and intangible and insane. I’m in love with nose piercings and poetry writing and adventuring and documenting. I’m in love with the idea of coffee shops. I’m in love with mixed tapes and other people’s clothing. I’m in love with going on photo shoots, and with developing, and with editing film. I’m in love with learning choreography and singing and baking. I’m in love with guitar and piano and marimba and voices. I’m in love with elderly couples and newborn babies and animals of all shapes and sizes. I’m in love with sunshine and bicycles and sundresses and favors. I’m in love with umbrellas and earrings and tripods and scarfs and autographs and shoes and pens and you.

I’m in love with happiness, because I’ve never experienced it like this before, and I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up and it will be gone.

I’m in love with you and with the world. I’m in love, and I’m scared that you don’t realize it, and that all this unrequited love will eventually corrode my insides like a beautiful organic toxin, and I will waste away slowly, quietly, day by day, and eventually I will die alone and my last thought will be how much I love you.