There comes a moment when we actually find enough justification to move on, whether we objectively created that belief for ourselves (not so probable) or things mutated into some futureless situation of an unrequited feeling stained with this inevitably heavy love and guilt. And loving ultimately condemns innocent people, attributing inequitable sentences, unjust words said and heard, others swallowed alongside with our honest notion of this now new perspective of the end. Life turns bitter and you cease to feed such inadequate state of feeling and being. You reboot your heart and hope for a fresh restart.
By this point you must be specially free, an emptying sensation that may spite you into bipolarity, but generally the payback of being unstuck is mainly positive. A different kind of happiness will shine from you, not better than the one born from love, just different, a joy that now depends on no one but you. And in the books, they say happiness is found within ourselves as individuals. And well, individuals possess the individuality trait, that intrapersonal capability of staying enclosed and personal though apparently fully at one with the external world. They believe.
And so we live after loss, we transgress this barrier walling barely something and contact the outside for the first time in years, we have no worries, no memories submerging the objective focus we should have always lived by but we couldn’t, only this residual taste of a currently fleeting past that left you confused to say the least, wholly lost. But empty spaces won’t remain vacant forever neither will we, undisturbed. We sometimes wish it could be this simple, bare of life in its essence, inert to an extent we would never find means nor need for rehabilitation. Well, it’s not, and we get involved and eventually come to admire someone else. I, for once thought this couldn’t affect a person who have learned to objectify love and emotion, who read through this chapter of despair so many times, but still it seems we don’t have the power to create our own ending. We drift and that’s simply beautiful, we are offered the unexpected, unasked but secretly wanted, we just didn’t know it yet, just as we can never know what we’ll live up to be, see or crave. And for some reason there will be very few people capable of conferring you this knowledge. They’ll impersonate your definition of love and you’ll carry their words from that day on, forever, it’s inevitable and invariable.
Re-listen and gladly reply,
Re-stare only to validate the obvious,
Reverberate with their joy,
And hopefully not re-lose.
Is there really another way? Will love ever find a way to refuse its own predictability? Will we?