(no subject)
I began to fall in love with everyone when I was twelve years old. The first time I felt something I was certain was love was on a cold day, in late October, while I looked for someone to play with. I remember I had seen a pretty, untouchable fifteen year-old girl pass by, and thought, I wonder what it would be like to talk to her. And perhaps that was the first stab of love I felt. After two lonely hours, I saw a young man pass by, and when he smiled at me, I wanted to follow him until my legs gave out and I collapsed.
In college, everyone captivated me. It was someone different every week; not real love, no, not what I feel now, but... these shells of infatuations, some new person that made me stare and think and write for; a new muse for each new week. It's so embarrassing to speak of details now, and so, I won't; Grantaire knows, and...that is quite enough. :)
...But I know what it feels like, when the knife stays embedded, and the one who stabbed you does not pull it out. I know how unrequited feels; how achingly deep the wound is, and how it never really goes away. How one wonders, Can anyone understand? They don't understand.
And they never do. There is no need for one to fool one's self for a moment: it is an empyrean pain, and love is an unknown shape that can not be grasped by the most sensitive of minds. It is a gutter no one can pull another out of, because, as painful as it is, one wants to be there, and lays there, hoping and waiting. It is a lonely feeling, feeling this heaven alone in a space made for two. It seems so vast when there is only one person to sit and dream happily.
I would never purposely leave someone to face a love that is fruitless, and lonesome, because that is opposite of what love was intended to be.... and yet it seems the fates do conspire against us, and make some individuals sit and watch another's misery helplessly, and make other individuals content, yet leave the hopeful, apprehensive earth to embrace every torment, on its own.
In college, everyone captivated me. It was someone different every week; not real love, no, not what I feel now, but... these shells of infatuations, some new person that made me stare and think and write for; a new muse for each new week. It's so embarrassing to speak of details now, and so, I won't; Grantaire knows, and...that is quite enough. :)
...But I know what it feels like, when the knife stays embedded, and the one who stabbed you does not pull it out. I know how unrequited feels; how achingly deep the wound is, and how it never really goes away. How one wonders, Can anyone understand? They don't understand.
And they never do. There is no need for one to fool one's self for a moment: it is an empyrean pain, and love is an unknown shape that can not be grasped by the most sensitive of minds. It is a gutter no one can pull another out of, because, as painful as it is, one wants to be there, and lays there, hoping and waiting. It is a lonely feeling, feeling this heaven alone in a space made for two. It seems so vast when there is only one person to sit and dream happily.
I would never purposely leave someone to face a love that is fruitless, and lonesome, because that is opposite of what love was intended to be.... and yet it seems the fates do conspire against us, and make some individuals sit and watch another's misery helplessly, and make other individuals content, yet leave the hopeful, apprehensive earth to embrace every torment, on its own.