(no subject)
I guess all I have to say is at least I let someone get this deep under my skin. I'm proud of myself for that.
What is it they say? You are what you love, and not what loves you back. andthisissotrue
There's only been one love for me. Really. And that was never real, he says. But that feeling was so real. I can remember that happiness as a vauge tangible feeling. I ache for the way it felt. But I've been saying that for years. I miss it. I miss it. I miss him. I miss you. But that's the neverending story of my life. And I keep on keeping on. I move as much as I can. I get up and fly to different countries. I live for a sememster in California. Pretty much anything to distract myself from the feeling of my roots seeping into the ground without the added touch of yours, spanning distances. Even in the tiniest ways. No, I don't sink far into the ground anymore. I just dance over the dead leaves.
Obession? That's not what this is. All that this is is a horrible carved out feeling that I always carry in the back of my mind. Everything in the context of what I knew to be my first love. The first time I let myself jump into it completely. To trust that it was real. It was a noble attempt. But I think I had only one of those leaps of faith in me. I don't think I can trust like that again.
And that's okay. In the end I'm very happy to be alone in my room. And the honest truth? I haven't met anybody else anyways. And I don't expect to. I expect to burn this candle and move on. Done with love. Done with that trust. Done with expecting intimacy because the kind I want isn't real. Never was, apparently.
But I'm real. And this hurt is real. And at least I know I'm alive.
What is it they say? You are what you love, and not what loves you back. andthisissotrue
There's only been one love for me. Really. And that was never real, he says. But that feeling was so real. I can remember that happiness as a vauge tangible feeling. I ache for the way it felt. But I've been saying that for years. I miss it. I miss it. I miss him. I miss you. But that's the neverending story of my life. And I keep on keeping on. I move as much as I can. I get up and fly to different countries. I live for a sememster in California. Pretty much anything to distract myself from the feeling of my roots seeping into the ground without the added touch of yours, spanning distances. Even in the tiniest ways. No, I don't sink far into the ground anymore. I just dance over the dead leaves.
Obession? That's not what this is. All that this is is a horrible carved out feeling that I always carry in the back of my mind. Everything in the context of what I knew to be my first love. The first time I let myself jump into it completely. To trust that it was real. It was a noble attempt. But I think I had only one of those leaps of faith in me. I don't think I can trust like that again.
And that's okay. In the end I'm very happy to be alone in my room. And the honest truth? I haven't met anybody else anyways. And I don't expect to. I expect to burn this candle and move on. Done with love. Done with that trust. Done with expecting intimacy because the kind I want isn't real. Never was, apparently.
But I'm real. And this hurt is real. And at least I know I'm alive.