I don't like hiding it when I like someone. I like telling everyone that I like this amazing person. That their existence makes me glad to have existed. That it's a love story. That the way they walk, talk, move their arms, gaze out at the ocean; it completes me.
I like celebrating that of the many that could've crossed their path and of the many that did cross mine; ours crossed at all. I like recognizing how small the probability of that happening really is and being ecstatic that it did happen. I hang on to their words, I stare at their eyes when they speak and I steal glances over my shoulders when we part ways. I put them up on a pedestal; I am kind, forgiving, patient. I exalt them. I boil over with joy and their name grace my lips candidly but constantly.
I don't choke them. I don't suffocate their dreams. I don't hold their hands and ask for forever. I never demand to be loved back. I play my part and revel in my own feelings; mostly self-inflicted heartache.
Perhaps my love story is not about them at all but about the alternate realities that I create based on who I am with them. A purely selfish endeavor to discover the many facets of being me. Learning, un-learning and re-learning along the way.
In romantic love, I seem to prefer those that are invariably poisonous for me. What surprises is though, how scared people are of being loved. How anxious and uncomfortable they get when they are loved by someone they don't understand.
Hate on the other hand seems a lot easier to accept. People don’t question your intentions when you borrow money and don’t return it; they nod their head in belief when you cheat them and curse their stars when you snatch a promotion from under their feet. But if you love them, they start to look at you with slanted dis-believing eyes; they question your motivation.
It is exhausting loving someone who is blinded by the halo surrounding them. Selfish, just like me. It’s a harmful cycle.
So I float. Up, up and away. Trying my best to devotedly, unconditionally, vigorously and blatantly love me.
I like celebrating that of the many that could've crossed their path and of the many that did cross mine; ours crossed at all. I like recognizing how small the probability of that happening really is and being ecstatic that it did happen. I hang on to their words, I stare at their eyes when they speak and I steal glances over my shoulders when we part ways. I put them up on a pedestal; I am kind, forgiving, patient. I exalt them. I boil over with joy and their name grace my lips candidly but constantly.
I don't choke them. I don't suffocate their dreams. I don't hold their hands and ask for forever. I never demand to be loved back. I play my part and revel in my own feelings; mostly self-inflicted heartache.
Perhaps my love story is not about them at all but about the alternate realities that I create based on who I am with them. A purely selfish endeavor to discover the many facets of being me. Learning, un-learning and re-learning along the way.
In romantic love, I seem to prefer those that are invariably poisonous for me. What surprises is though, how scared people are of being loved. How anxious and uncomfortable they get when they are loved by someone they don't understand.
Hate on the other hand seems a lot easier to accept. People don’t question your intentions when you borrow money and don’t return it; they nod their head in belief when you cheat them and curse their stars when you snatch a promotion from under their feet. But if you love them, they start to look at you with slanted dis-believing eyes; they question your motivation.
It is exhausting loving someone who is blinded by the halo surrounding them. Selfish, just like me. It’s a harmful cycle.
So I float. Up, up and away. Trying my best to devotedly, unconditionally, vigorously and blatantly love me.
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