I envy those who have no love in their lives.
I want to be the one who has nothing to care for, or about.
I am jealous of those who have nothing to lose beyond themselves.
They have their share of sadness, to be sure.
But, those who hold nothing dear, either by fate or choice,
cannot know the terror that comes with loving something, someone else, truly.
The overwhelming realization that this person, or thing, you love so dearly will some day be taken from you, or you from it,
is tragic on a scale that is unimaginable,
but felt all the same.
No, give me the life of the uncommitted,
of the freedom to love nothing,
with the highs always being low
making the lows seem so much higher.
Give me mediocrity of unattachment
in lieu of the purest love that defines life and shakes it to its core.
The trepidation of the later being too beautiful to handle.