its own kind of freedom…

I wrote love notes of various kinds… here and there… hoping I really was seen, feeling against thinking that perhaps finally, my trust was worth giving. I thot: this is what all those story books and fairytales were trying to describe. Swept off my feet, I fell.

Too late I realized I was wrong: when you looked at me, it was not a promise, it was not a meeting of well-mets; it was a warning.

… so many love notes.

Human hearts are fragile, made particularly malleable thanks to the mind-bending heat of misguided belief. Pain births deeper understanding as it sinks into scars you believed to be healed (or, at least, healing). Blame, lies, disrespect, and silence disappears love. We become rank with longing for something that never really was.

This is the struggle to Living.
This is why we pray for blindness.
Loving the Wrong One illuminates if our soul stays open.
I see you even more clearly now but more: I see me.

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2 Responses to “its own kind of freedom…”

  1. Mrs Fever July 3, 2015 at 12:50 pm #

    Silence disappears love.


    Choosing silence, rather than choosing to engage or respond… The deliberate action of *inaction* kills tender emotion, budding or blossomed, as refusing water to a blooming rose. Sunlight alone does not sustain, and the promise of growth withers and dies.

    • lolamoi July 3, 2015 at 2:00 pm #

      I was once told out of the blue: “I’m choosing not to get closer.”
      That, and more: it’s all echo to your words, Feve.


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