Where does love go when it's not returned?
Or;
Where does love go when it is?
...
Once upon a time, when he had been nothing more than a child, so naive and innocent, he had formulated an image of what he thought his life should be. Had planned out the path that he was intended to follow. Had worked out everything with such exact precision that it left absolutely no room for error.
At nineteen he was meant to leave high school and begin his college education. Back then, he had been completely convinced that he was meant to be something great. Perhaps a doctor since he was so compassionate and caring. Or a lawyer, since he apparently loved to argue. Then, once he had grown a little older, had learned a bit more about himself, he realized that what he truly wanted was to be an actor. Had poured countless hours into researching everything he could on how make that dream a reality. Had drew an outline and had followed it perfectly.
Until he turned fourteen and realize the unfortunate truth was that he was a terrible actor. Sure, he had the looks for it. The personality. But he lacked the confidence and the self esteem. Couldn't lie convincingly no matter how hard he tried.
So his ambitions had changed one again. Had tried to focus on what he was good at. Only apparently the culinary arts weren't worthy enough to support. What they were worthy of, apparently, was becoming fodder for his families amusement. Practically forced him to become their personal chefs all while laughing and calling it training and experience.
He had left home practically the moment he had graduated. Had taken their last gift and used it to remove himself from the situation. And really, that's where everything had begun it's downward spiral, until he hadn't just hit rock bottom. No, he had crashed into it. Hit it with the force of a thousand lift times worth of self loathing and depression and hatred. Had remained there, seemingly unwilling or unable to pull himself back up until someone else had come along to finish the job.
Only that blow had never come. Despite how desperately he had once wished for it too.
...
Where does love go when it's not returned?
Eventually, it fades away. Becomes nothing more than a distant memory of what could have been. Oh, there would be remnants left behind. Little pieces that hadn't quite gotten the memo to evacuate completely. And they would haunt. Would cause little phantom pains when it was least expected.
But it would fade. And you would heal. And while it may seem for all the world like you would never make it past that moment, the truth remained that you would.
And you do.
And love begins again.
...
Where does love go when it is returned?
It flows freely from one heart to the next. An endless cycle formed into an infinity loop. Oh, it wouldn't be perfect. No, love was far too unpredictable and unstable for that. There would still be pain. And it would cut deep. So deep that it would feel as if you were dying. And maybe the pain of an unrequited love would be preferable then. At least it faded.
A love that was returned never did.
No, it may stagnate. Maybe change and transform. But it never faded. Never went away. You were forced to live with that agony for the rest of your days. Knew that your heart was no longer truly your own. That it belonged to another. That you had to simply accept the damage that was dealt to it.
It never went anywhere.
...
It never went anywhere.
Just like the ink that was now embedded into his skin. Bright pigments off set by stark black, a contrast that played out against pale skin. Physical proof that this wasn't simply another long, drawn out dream from which was going to wake suddenly, head spinning and heart shattered because the life he'd imagined for himself had once more been stripped away.
That this wasn't just some elaborate fantasy. Some day dream that he was going to be brought out of at any given second.
That this was all real.
And it was never going anywhere.
