The state of the world has greatly disappointed me. Like everyone, I have made promises, experienced love, and felt regret beyond remorse.
I still love someone who left and never returned. I watched them leave the door because what else can a man ma...
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transcript:
I was surprised at how much love I could give, as though I had been made of it. But then again, my mother endured her abusive husband for an almost endless decade. It's as if the sharpest words that repeated all of her mistakes and the barbs that surmised her a whore only made her love stronger. My aunt did the same. She endured constant betrayal, and another, and despite the repeated cruelty, merely clung to her rosary as though expecting God to give her a medal for it. Tragedy was written in our blood.
We loved like dogs—unabashedly servile and unequivocally tragic, clinging to uncaring lovers who took us for granted. I feared loving someone because I feared becoming like them. I knew I would be like them. I could feel it in my blood; it was a writ carved into my bones—inherited, not taught. But shouldn't love feel like writing your own tragedy? Because if it didn't feel like a tragedy, then it had no substance, and love was not insubstantial.
