After having my heart pummel from one painful story to another, I had thought it would finally decide to stop beating for anyone else. Now, admittedly, it still is beating for that same person as from before, but then as it approaches the end of that chapter of my life, it's sending me signals that it's about to go back to yet another not so lovely, and not so happy love story. The upcoming love story is still in the making, and it hasn't even reached the point of deserving the word "love", and yet I could feel the onset of the oh so very familiar sense of happiness.
All I am left to ponder on is how this new story would emerge. Would it be a great replica of my great and amazing stupidity? or would it manifest a me that has learned to get tired of caring? a me that has finally become indifferent with the insensitivity of man? A me that just wants to accept the subsequent stories that would come my way and just really want to get them over with? What sense is there in loving, anyway, when the act of loving is merely a way to create a self-inflicted hell? Despite of being that which many view to be the essence of living, loving is not at all how it presents itself to me.
Maybe I have just grown bitter; maybe I have just lost all faith in love; maybe I have just lost all hope of being truly happy... it could be those things, or I simply stopped wanting to live.
This entry was posted
on Tuesday, November 15, 2011
at 6:16 AM
. You can follow any responses to this entry through the
comments feed
.