Little Lion Man

When I was a little girl, I slammed my finger in a Chick-fil-a door. After a solid thirty minutes of crying and applying pressure to my swollen thumb, I received a free Ice Dream cone and a pretty blue bandaid. From then on, I made sure to keep my hands far away from shutting doors, careful to avoid feeling that throbbing pain again. The cause was my carelessness, the effect was my pain. Instinctually, I learned my lesson, and I don't think I've ever made that mistake again.
The mass of mankind claims to be superior. Civilized. Intelligent enough to know what's good for us. But do we? I feel like the older we get, the more masochistic we become, turning to what causes us great pain despite knowing so much better.
Ask anyone about love and the answers will be scattered across the board. But they'll all be united in one solitary thread: it exists. It happens. It hurts. And like it or not, we crave it above anything else.
And I so often ask why. Why can't we learn our lesson? Why is the thing that has the ability to rip open our chests and shove a dagger in our souls the very thing we think we need to feel complete?
It seems every other beast in the animal kingdom listens to its instincts. The animals fall back on experience and intuition to survive. They have to. To ignore what they have learned while scrounging through the jungle or bolting through the brush could mean death.
Don't eat the bright blue frogs. Avoid the water hole to the west of the savannah. There's a big difference between giant fire ants and the brown ants.
A sloth climbs out on a wobbly limb and falls- well, he doesn't take a risk on the frail branches anymore. The zebra takes a jog in the open field, and his herd realizes all too soon where the lion den is located.
The creatures of the earth, sea, and sky have all discovered the dangers of taking risks and putting themselves out there. So why can't we?
We live and learn and hurt and yet we keep erring. We hold someone's hand. We share our sleep-laced secrets in the dark. We blindly walk into someone else's arms and truly believe, despite everything we have already felt at love's harsh hand, that we will make it out unscathed. And when we're knocked out of our tree or being chased around by our own set of predators, we are scared.
We regret ever giving our metaphorical heart to another, regret believing every doe-eyed look and every butterfly-light whisper. We swear to ourselves never again, and flee like the tail-end of a dream. Gone, gone, gone. We're done, done, done.
But we aren't. One greeting and we're halfway up the tree again, disregarding the barely faded bruises we sustained last time. One embrace and we've jumped into the deep in.
I wish I knew what it was about love and passion that makes man wipe his brain of any warnings. I wish I knew what it was that tethers us to one person, one mere feeling even though we've felt utter despair at its disposal. I wish I was strong enough to resist and be like the animals, eager to avoid any ounce of pain.
Maybe it is the pain. Maybe we like it. Maybe we're wired that way; programmed to be below the beasts of the world when running in the marathon of the heart's affections. An unfettered heart is a dangerous one. And the exhilaration of danger clearly leaves us with an empty brain, a dazed physique, and a heart wanting more.