, , , , , , , ,

Not sure whether I’ve cast off the chains of delusion or I’ve only be able to see the pain I felt, losing sight of things beyond the blinders of my insecurity.

I don’t know if the difference between being alone and loving and being loved is my own inability to see the bigger picture and trust my feeling or simply the fact that the timing wasn’t right or somewhere deep inside I wanted to be alone.

Maybe it just wasn’t the right time, but I thought love conquered all. I still believe that. I’d rather believe that and know that it wasn’t quite love.  Or seems not to be at the moment.

It’s amazing how people will fight and die and go to war for the most ordinary of things. It’s amazing how easy it is to let it go because it seems like nothing special at all, just a normal chemical reaction when you put two people together in the right circumstances. It’s so heartbreaking to see where that feeling so often goes when those conditions change.

And to keep on believing, there’s something worth fighting and dying and living for, everyday of your life, till death do you part.

I know it’s out there, but it’s so ordinary. It’s based on patience and everyday kindness, not lightning striking in the right place. It’s not Cupid’s fault; it’s mine, for lacking patience, it’s mine for fearing to believe, and it’s his for letting me go.

I know I still feel something, because I cried/ am crying a little bit now. Sometimes I wish I weren’t so sensitive, but what would be the point of life then.

I’d rather cry and know I’m alive, but I have to let go if there’s nothing more than pain to let me know there’s something there.  Pain is not something I’m going to fight for, not when there is so much joy in this world.

Sometimes I don’t know who I am, since I’ve stopped trying. Since I’ve stopped letting my heart bleed its last blood for something I’m not even sure I want anymore. Not going to let my self esteem die for you. I don’t know if that’s arrogance or strength, or the humility to know I don’t know enough to merit continued suffering.

Shame on you and me, that we let the most precious and everyday of circumstances go to waste.

Let’s forgive ourselves for being normal and young and stupid and afraid.

“The powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” Walt Whitman via Dead Poets Society

I don’t know what our verse will be, or if it really ends here, but I’m satisfied because there is no way you didn’t know that I loved you.

Forgive me.