lonely.
i never wanted to achieve anything, not without her.
her plans were different, and she was off discovering herself in lands far away, eating what I could never eat, learning what i could never learn: she filled her personal space with the world. and it was good, i guess.
i sat at home and watched football. watched men crush each other's bones over an oddly shaped ball. wondered if they were happy being mere atoms, being perpetually in motion. collisions break bodies, but not hearts.
eventually i got up and found myself elsewhere. & things began to make sense again. all i had to do was forget everyone i ever knew.
now the cycle is threatening to repeat from its beginning, and i hate the fact i might love, and i hate whom i might love.
the hate i'm comfortable with. it's merely the want to be alone, and is easy to understand: what one wants in hate, one gets. love means vulnerability. it means goods that take time to appreciate.
worst of all, it means giving. and more giving. i'm too old to create in order to give. funny. i've never seen atheist make that argument: the problem with god is that if he is to love, he cannot grow old. but he is the oldest thing in the universe.
it makes perfect sense to me nowadays.
too long a sacrifice does indeed make a stone of the heart, but it is nothing to cry about. to grow up is to understand the impossibility of love for oneself: it's not fun anymore, it's a chore worse than any other.
her plans were different, and she was off discovering herself in lands far away, eating what I could never eat, learning what i could never learn: she filled her personal space with the world. and it was good, i guess.
i sat at home and watched football. watched men crush each other's bones over an oddly shaped ball. wondered if they were happy being mere atoms, being perpetually in motion. collisions break bodies, but not hearts.
eventually i got up and found myself elsewhere. & things began to make sense again. all i had to do was forget everyone i ever knew.
now the cycle is threatening to repeat from its beginning, and i hate the fact i might love, and i hate whom i might love.
the hate i'm comfortable with. it's merely the want to be alone, and is easy to understand: what one wants in hate, one gets. love means vulnerability. it means goods that take time to appreciate.
worst of all, it means giving. and more giving. i'm too old to create in order to give. funny. i've never seen atheist make that argument: the problem with god is that if he is to love, he cannot grow old. but he is the oldest thing in the universe.
it makes perfect sense to me nowadays.
too long a sacrifice does indeed make a stone of the heart, but it is nothing to cry about. to grow up is to understand the impossibility of love for oneself: it's not fun anymore, it's a chore worse than any other.