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?

I would love to meet all of my selves;
To dine with, and hold clarifying conversations.
I have long been wary of my many personalities,
embraced them, and cherished each one of them.

I wish I could individually meet each one of them.
To hear them introduce themselves;
To hug me and comment on the pleasure of meeting me.
To understand them, as seperate persons outside of me.
To hear their stories,
what groomed who they are;
to hear about their days,
and talk about their feelings;
for them to tell me if I give them enough of me.
Do they even like me, or like being a part of me?

They mould who I am;
They are who I am.
They carry me when I am at my weakest;
They are weak with me, cry with me -
laugh with me, love with me,
and wander with me, at 3:55 am.

Would I enjoy them,
and want them to remain a part of my life?
Are they individuals with stories,
who also need to be heard?
Part of being understood is being heard.

We learn new things about ourselves all the time;
Maybe, that is how we meet our own selves:
In Epiphanies about our identities.

There is a certain beauty about the uncertainty of life,
prominence in the assumption that anything's possible.
The daily routines we embark on;
goal-setting, chasing dreams, breaking hearts,
mending broken hearts, emotional turmoil: happy highs,
sad lows, anger towards our failures.
An endless cycle of uncertainty, yet we push on.

There is beauty in that, the uncertainty, so I perceive it.
I love subtle beauty, it opens your mind up.
Aesthetics are not the only beauty, in my eyes.
There is beauty in the stumble and stagger of
a broken heart.
There is beauty in the defeat from an exhausting day.
Beauty in falling out of love, exempting yourself out
of agony.
Beauty in scathing through, barely afloat, to make ends meet.

Beauty, it may as well be that.
Life is open to all sorts of possibilities;
there is beauty in the fact we push on in spite of the hurdles -
push on in the face of struggle and defeat,
push on when everything's going well, of course,
push on when our dreams fail and need altering.
The beauty of life is not in romanticising struggle,
but in that there is strength within all of us;
a strength that fails to yield in the face of defeat.
We are beauty for pushing on.

The emptiness visits as dusk begins to fade away.
The loneliness awakens to indulge your thoughts.
The sadness rinses your eyes,
and you begin to converse with the thoughts;
thoughts that continue to manifest 'til your body aches.

You lay, achingly;
tears leaving your face with marks.
Thoughts, rumbling like an endless drum-roll.
Your insides, sore,
chest, tightening -
breathing, difficult.
Your hands, limbs, trembling uncontrollably.

A feeling unexplainable if never felt.

This emptiness hurts -
this feeling of constant melancholia and worthlessness,
this shedding of tears,
this pain - hurts.

Somehow, the body manages to shut down;
you find peace in your sleep -
a peace that is disturbed every hour 'til you wake.

You wake to relive the nightmare of yesterday;
Aching, pondering why you continue to hold on.
Holding on 'til the inevitable happens.

In my desperate search for true love;
I lost myself.

In this world, only two things are perfect;
The world spinning on its axis,
And the sun shining at its fullest.

Everything else isn't -
Rains falls as you fix yourself up,
preparing for that date she finally said yes to.
It snows -
the day you decide to finally leave your room.
And you lose someone important,
on the evening your tears are the heaviest.

There is no being perfect in an imperfect world.
Flowers grow on solid concrete pavements.
Rivers aren't enough -
for plants to survive the wreckage of Autumn.
And you lean in for a kiss, to be met with a friendly hug.

You make time for people who are too busy for you.
You make friends with strangers you'll never meet.
And you find out you are allergic to shellfish -
while on a quest to try out new things.

In this world, only one other thing is perfect:
Imperfections.