Maybe it was this hopeless romantic stuff, you know? The holding on, the yearning, the always looking and asking yourself, “Is this the one?”. Slowly, I’m learning that I don’t want to walk around with my heart on my sleeve anymore. It’s an odd feeling to not want to do something that comes rather naturally to you.
Perhaps, you’d say: but you’re too young. That much is true, of course, but I am weary and tired, too. It was our obsession with separating things into neat labels that were the problem. I am beaming with energy, but I am so terribly exhausted. It had been a lesson in itself that a person could be both at the same time. I was both at all times on all days.
Or maybe, it is about terrible luck, but is that any consolation at all? I think not. It’s a tale as old as time, really. We just don’t talk about the unlucky ones. Barely any stories about them, almost no movies about them, nothing. It’s just an endless barrage of things that magically work out, and that’s what you keep telling me too, right? The universe and whatnot.
Well, I have never been important enough for the universe, case in point, so I believe that’s moot, then. Even if I was somewhere in the grand scheme of things, I was just one little domino, nothing else, nothing more. It was foolish to believe otherwise, and I would fight you to death with what life I have left inside.
Morbid monologues aside, I am learning this happily ever after, this pick one person and make it work, this I knew I would eventually fall for you thing is just one of many things that people can fail at. I’m slowly beginning to accept that I am good at a thousand things; I have countless things to offer the world. I’m done focusing on the one thing I fail terribly at.
I’m done losing people over this idea of love. I’m tired of letting you go. I’m done embracing my innate nature. I shall now rebel against myself. I have so much more to give to the world. Every idiot in every corner can give it another love story.
My heart is not on my sleeve anymore.