The odd thing about love is the ease in which it engulfs you.
You can easily find yourself an expatriate of your isolated experiences.
It is beautiful - to exist in a world of your fond choosing, with a love who cherishes every moment with you.
It is deluding.
It ends.


In its end,
it is disappointing.

Love feels like standing on the edge of a cliff - a cliff sufficiently masked with fog - and jumping, hoping a safety net is at the bottom.
In my leap, love broke every piece of me;
Love suffocated me.

It is easier to focus on the past.
It's a lived experience, and the future makes us apprehensive;
And we live and have shared experiences,
And experience people in a new way every day.

But, often, we focus on perfection.
Things have to be perfect;
And, yet, often, we remind ourselves there is no such thing as perfect.

But, perhaps, there is.

Perhaps we are all perfect, but
We are imperfect when we meet another's perfect.
We begin to project our own selves, unfairly, unto the other person.
We call it flaws; she is flawed for not meeting my perfect.
And that is not fair.

We are but strangers, after all.
The great adventure would be to acknowledge another's individuality.
To explore them, wholly, without idealising our ideas of perfect on them.

There is fond joy in being wholly accepted for the person you are,
Instead of what people wish for you to be.
To be understood for your unique individualism,
Instead of being critiqued for your eccentric nature.

I am, but imperfect and flawed when not wholly accepted for being me.

I used to believe I knew how to love.
I understood romance, and
the beauty and genuinity of affection.
I was wrong.

I was wrong;
wrong in my understanding of love.
Wrong for believing, impractically,
in the idealisation of a romantic love.

It has become apparent to me -
that love, in meaning,
and understanding,
is about what you can do for another.
It is not affection, affirmation;
support, acceptance, romance;
but, that love is conditional -
until your being can no longer do for someone.

For being so wrong,
wrong in my perception of love -
it has left a bitter-tasting question:
do I know love, and how to give a love,
that only has meaning - and value -
only when you have tangible gain?

What is left of our human emotion,
of the value of abstract feeling,
of a smile, of the journey of knowing,
learning, admiring; a person.
and being hopelessly overt in passion,
interest, intrigue and attraction;
the genuinity of being wholeheartedly,
fanatically, in love with a person.

If the meaning of love is only valued
by what a person can do for you;
do I really want to give a love of that
insignificance?

Sometimes, what hurts is not just losing love -
but the reality of losing your best friend, your world.
Losing the person you've spent many-a-time making memories with;
the only person in the world you felt a sense of belonging with.

Sometimes, what hurts most is watching things fall apart -
rooted to the ground, you are unable to hold on to your slipping love.

Nights you would spend conversing with your love;
planning your future memories,
enjoying the night-sky together -
now turned to nights of sorrow, loneliness and heartache.

Sometimes, what hurts most is knowing you are responsible for everything that went wrong.

Can we blame anyone for our insecurities
and low self-esteems?
Are they self-inflicted, or a result of having our true selves continuously rejected?
Having to constantly alter yourself to fit a societal model that is appreciated and accepted.

Are we projecting too much hurt?
To the point there is no more good to feel within and about our own selves?
Are we wallowing in sadness and imperfections,
that we feel unable to find joy in anything?

Who am I supposed to blame -
blame for no longer wanting to go outside because I feel filthy inside when people gaze at me?
Their stares look more like laughter -
laughter at the insecurities weighing heavy and breaking my posture.

I am not perfect, but I am not flawed.
The world may have given up on loving me;
loving me for my uniqueness and authenticity,
but I will never overcome my brokenness if I give up on loving myself -
and for that love to suffice;
but concede to the societal standard:
I am not acceptable, or wanted.

How can you expect someone to love you -
when you are not the person they wanted?
When all you are is a substitute;
filling a vacancy left open by the person
they wish to be with.

How can you be enough to a person
who is never impressed by any of your efforts?
A person who sees all your expressions of love,
as inadequate coming from you?

How can you be appreciated by a person
who sees your eccentricities as flaws?
A person who attempts to appropriate anything,
and everything unique about you.

How can you be worth meaning a great deal
to a person who sees no value in you?
A person who is prejudicial without remorse.

How can you be worth loving
when you struggle to love yourself?
When life has flagellated your self-esteem;
when depression has left you void of any jubilation,
and left you with an overwhelming emptiness
and nights of crying-induced sleep?

At my best, the love I give is not reciprocated.
The person I am is not celebrated.
The emptiness within me seeks solace in recluse.