I thought when you said you wanted me, that you meant you wanted only me. I thought that I was your result, the end of your search, but I was wrong. To you, I was just a paper in a magazine. A funny girl who the sight of didn’t make you gag, one of many. You’re bored now, onto the next page.
I like writing about love because I remember a time when I used to hate it, belittle & constantly make fun of it. I genuinly didn’t get it. I didn’t get love or people in love. I didn’t get romance or that crazy stupid love people talk about. Not until I experienced it myself. Love is incredibly beautiful, and ugly, and confusing and scary and painful. Every emotion you know is experienced under the name of love. You sometimes want to write about it and scream it to the world. Other times you just want to cuss it.
However, the one constant thing is, you always want it to succeed. You want to see love bloom. You want it to traimph hate and every negative emotion known to you. You cling to it like hope and pray for it like a good friend or a child.
A lot of people nowadays will say things like ‘I’m dead inside’ or ‘If I had feelings, that would hurt’ as an attempt to sound cool & insensitive to hide their vulnerability but the truth is we enjoy feeling. Every now & then we like to listen to, read or watch something that moves & elicits an emotional response in us just to make sure we’re still alive inside, but we like to do it in our own time. At a time we feel is an appropriate time to feel.