There are these two types of pain orbiting love.
The pain of remaining in where you don’t belong and the one contracted by letting go.
Which one is the painfullest?
The first one castrates you, the second enables you to move on, by allowing a part of you to die in a sacrifice, an obligation to forget, a dumb attempt that’ll only remind you of how much you lack her.
Would I go for the premier or the other one? Or neither? Would I, by any chance, want to still be the one I was before I understood the meaning of the word “pain”, and along with it, love itself?
No, never that, pain is comparatively better than having still no place inside you only built to be beaten, no vulnerability, no her to turn the boy you used to be into the man you are now. After all, loving someone offers you the so desired, taunting maturity. You grow up and then you envy the other grown-ups who didn’t need to ache like you to reach adulthood. After, you pity them for being so maturely weak, ignorers of life that despise love, they don’t comprehend it. Amongst them, they’re happy, for me they seem sadly lucky, such a silly fate they were imposed, a superficial state of mind, and so they gladly carry on, grinning, not perceiving what they miss when neglecting love, and loss, and with it lakes of immortal saudade, the one feeling which not even the fullest of lives can conceal or erase.
To bypass hurt, that’s sadder than crying, more shattering to your still in progress persona than dealing with a broken heart. Spending your life needing to find someone who will scarcely ever mean something to you is obviously shallower than having once found the one who meant it all, forever, even if it was barely a reality, perhaps a dream of yours, maybe a meaningless utility she unconsciously granted you, for she had the unique ability to gaze you in a way that had the potential to hide so much if she wanted, but she didn’t, and so you look down, expecting to find her eyes reflected in a damp mossy puddle; glimpsing up and her face being no more than a pale winter recently full moon, a light that is now vanishing as days fly by until some other evening, a hostile twilight when there’ll be no more forsaken tones of marble in her vague smile, now turning somber. She’ll tighten up and turn away, and your nights will be gone, and yet they’ll be all you have, an absent noir and nasty sensation of estrangement clad with a low-lit sky.
And that’s the thing with love that was never right, you come from nothing to end up even emptier.
But this poverty you so hardly worked to attain, it’ll be the richest ornament for your spirit. In spite of your state of heartruptcy, you have had all you’ve ever wanted from afar, without ever needing to reach out and grab it. Isn’t that all we crave?
What you felt as a result of engaging in her existence. A wealth falling on your feet, unasked, a richness no one will ever steal from you, for they can never take what they can’t feel.
You stole her from anyone who’ll follow, and if she is sensible enough, she’ll one day thank you for stealing her herself, someone she couldn’t even imagine she was, a love that loved you, silently, without her knowing.