Foolish
Love sometimes comes in an illusion, a form of what we want to see and believe in. But actually, it’s not love we have to blame. It’s just us.
It came to me as a childish crush, an infatuation. Twice it conquered me and now is back here for the third time. And still, I’m not ready for this. I know I’m looking at a figment of my imagination, but I’m not strong enough to break through this curse.
This “love” has brought me false hope. It makes me believe that everything I think of is reality but no, it’s just my reality. Not his. It makes me feel as if I’m going to get what I desire but then it turns out it’s just a game and I’m the one being played with. A fool: that’s what I am.
Having false hope means lying to yourself. I am drowning in my own lies and he’s not there to save me. I tell myself that he will help me always, but then I realize I’m just all alone. He will not be there in times of distress or worry, surely. But I’d rather blind myself with all these lies than see the truth in my own naked eyes.
“He is not a part of you,” my mind repeats over and over. That’s one of the saddest things in the world, because the more I think about it, the more my heart breaks, the more I lose myself for another human. “He isn’t and will never be.”
But the worst part of this infatuation is that even though my heart is falling apart and my mind is shouting all these thoughts, my mouth seems to cover it all with just a smile, sometimes a laugh. This kind of love is like a promise of secrecy and when it is broken, everything else follows. We’ve never been together but we will be strangers with broken hearts.
And it all starts with me. For believing, lying, and slowly destroying myself. Love just got the best of me. Foolish me.
