In the whirlwind of this era, where the tempo of life conducts its symphony at a relentless pace, it becomes imperative for us to orchestrate a resolute pause. We, like unwitting swimmers, find ourselves entrapped in the surging waves of time, unaware that with each passing second, they clandestinely submerge us.
Consider love, a tapestry woven in the loom of existence. In the innocence of childhood, I once believed that love was the very elixir, an essence vital for human growth. Observing the love of our life strolling outside the classroom, yearning for their attention. The happiness of laying upon the bed, eagerly awaiting phone calls that seemed to stretch into the realms of eternity. Love, a treasure often taken for granted, its profound privilege easily eclipsed by the mundane.
The echoes of that sentiment persist within me even now. Yet, unlike the version of myself at ten, blissfully untethered by concerns beyond the completion of homework before a new dawn, the present me is fettered by an unrelenting chain of complexities that constrict and suffocate with each passing day.
In the waning corridors of time, the privilege that once graced my childhood eludes my grasp like elusive whispers on the wind. To tether my thoughts to such topic is a waste of time, a futile effort that only adds weight to the burdens I already bear. It will only be unfair to the one who, with boundless love, adorns my existence, offering an intensity that deserves reciprocity, not the feeble echoes of inadequate ardor.
Why do they settle for a love that’s not up to par?A misconception,perhaps they think if they over pour their love to someone, it will somehow balance things out — but love doesn’t thrive when it’s unevenly given; it suffers, damaging both the heart and soul in the process.
The notion of not being able to fully embrace love lingers like a gentle ghost within my thoughts. What pains me further is the fact that I am preventing myself from receiving the embrace of love, a self-imposed exile from the realm of affection because I deeply believe I am not capable of being loved. Like Kafka’s portrayal of self as mere dirt, I perceive myself as a polluted patch, tainted by viral afflictions that transform the soil into a grotesque visage, unworthy even of a mirrored gaze.
Should I dare to traverse a room adorned with mirrors, each reflective surface would fracture at the mere sight of my countenance, a testament to the perceived hideousness that shrouds me. Love, in its purest form, becomes a ludicrous notion, a farcical pursuit as I deem myself unworthy of its tender offerings. The audacity to accept the notion of love becomes a pantomime, a masquerade that, in the eyes of others, renders me a subject of derision and mirth.
In the vast tapestry of emotions, love eludes me like an elusive comet, streaking across the heavens, leaving me in perpetual yearning. I stand at the threshold of affection, an observer on the fringes of an ethereal realm, unable to traverse its celestial expanse. Love, an opulent tapestry woven with threads of connection, seems an art form lost to me, a symphony whose notes I cannot decipher.
This world, a realm of ardor and tender connections, remains forever a fantastical landscape — a distant dimension I can only glimpse from the shadows, forbidden to set foot upon its sacred soil. No matter the Herculean efforts invested in breaching this ethereal barrier, I find myself tethered to a stagnant moment in time. My gaze perpetually skyward, I witness a world where others bask in the warmth of shared affections, ensconced in the tender embrace of their beloveds.
Yet, here I stand, a particle of earthiness, shunned from that hallowed sanctum, feared as a potential contaminant to the purity of that sacred land. My existence, akin to an unwelcome intrusion, persists at this solitary juncture, forever barred from the sanctum where hearts intertwine and souls dance in the alchemy of love’s embrace.
from me, the moon; xx sofea.
