dear you,
believe me, it's not as alluring as what they scribble in poems, what you construe in novels. you'll never genuinely comprehend what a heartbreak is until you stare at yourself in the mirror — with tears welling up in your hitherto swollen eyes, discerning your reflection as a catastrophe. believe me, as intricately embroidered as it sounds, there's nothing beautiful, nothing to be craved for, about aching from your insides. and i hope you'll never have to experience all of the above.
i hope you'll never have to learn by heart that one of the arduous things in life is to be happy with someone, without empowering them to become the origin of your euphoria; because when they're gone, it's all gone. it's okay, you know. all of it. how he's not thinking of you, how you're not his muse. how you're aching for him and how rigorous it is to seek for something that doesn't awake your memories of him. maybe we tend to simply love people too much, that even when they're gone, even when all the remnants that authenticated their love for you have evanesced, even when it won't make an ounce of difference anymore, we still breathe for them.
i know — it's illogical. it doesn't make any sense, and there will always be an infinite 'if only's and millions of 'i wish's, but love is fathomless. it doesn't stop. and maybe it's not supposed to. perhaps it'll always hurt; and loving him is self-immolation — a bloodbath. but maybe, you'll just have to strive to be okay with that.
from, your shell
YOU ARE READING
letters he'll never read
Romance"and if a writer falls in love with you, you can never die" dear you, imy. before i knew it, you disappeared into thin air; but even after you were gone, you were still my muse. and what terrified me the most was that there's still a lifetime left...
