“If only she had been lucky enough to be born with a natural propensity to love me”.
I say it a lot to myself, selfishly perhaps, but in the end this is the farthermost extreme truth. This is why me and her, we weren’t allowed to metamorphose into an us. She couldn’t see it, and I consequently couldn’t be it, for her.
After all, we either like or we don’t, love is a game of attraction or repulsion, in between there’s friends. Why are we able to learn how to love in such different ways? We can be nice and respectful, lovely and solicitous, we can brilliantly fake it, after all we seem to be here only to please the ones who make life seemingly unpleasant for us. We know how to pretend the love we lack, we do it unconsciously but voluntarily. We are good by nature. But goodness and kindness, they are not as closely related as we would like them to be.
However, romance, it is an exquisite sort of love. This emotional condition can’t just be created, it must sprout unsown and set free to self-sufficiently spread. It can and should be tended but never forcibly nurtured, or at least hyperbolically fed with the future expectation of it coming to bear a so promised fruit, a fruit that is precarious, and yet can’t be fetched by hand, it ought to guilelessly fall when ripe. Nothing more must be asked or expected of it.
Because oftentimes it’s an almost impossible feat to lead someone into understanding what you feel and how you’re trying to express it; and they would be so absurdly happy if only they could get it, but they can’t. Therefore, I can solely feel sorry for her, in a way.
That’s how I think on this issue, not as if I’m not an amply interesting man, or she is just too dumb and blind to perceive me. It’s not that, what takes place here is a simple nonoccurrence of a possibly beautiful thing, caused by an absence of the right kind of feelings in some neglectfully scripted key moments. Broken hearts are born like this. Easily and without pleasant justification or obligingly coherent explanations.
If only she would regard who she thinks I’m not, so I could finally become who I’m impatiently waiting to be.