Loving is rebellion against the indifference of the world.
To love is to insist that something matters in a universe that does not care.
And so, when one leaves love behind, it is not merely a person they abandon, nor the illusion that meaning could ever be sustained by another’s presence.
The leaving of love exposes everything for what it is.
You see then that love was never eternal but a brief alignment of delusions, the mistaking of two people of their presence as a sort of escape.
I do not hate what I leave behind.
To still believe in the promise of love is to still be young in spirit, to not yet have seen how beauty demands loss to exist.
Every tenderness carries its expiry and every attachment hides the seed of decay.
And yet, even knowing this, part of me mourns.
Not the person, not even the story, but for the version of myself that could still believe.
But every awakening begins with grief,
as clarity always costs the dream.
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 7:38 PM UTC
Loving is rebellion against the indifference of the world.
To love is to insist that something matters in a universe that does not care.
And so, when one leaves love behind, it is not merely a person they abandon, nor the illusion that meaning could ever be sustained by another’s presence.
The leaving of love exposes everything for what it is.
You see then that love was never eternal but a brief alignment of delusions, the mistaking of two people of their presence as a sort of escape.
I do not hate what I leave behind.
To still believe in the promise of love is to still be young in spirit, to not yet have seen how beauty demands loss to exist.
Every tenderness carries its expiry and every attachment hides the seed of decay.
And yet, even knowing this, part of me mourns.
Not the person, not even the story, but for the version of myself that could still believe.
But every awakening begins with grief,
as clarity always costs the dream.