“I’m mad to be in love. How can I be?
Possibilities, though imaginative, are left in lieu of more honest things. Simple things. True things.
Life as we know it is not all it was made up to be. Certain as we are of reality.
I wish I didn’t love, but I do.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my frustrations at others were, in fact, all mine.
My wants, my needs, my selfish self driven to say things and hear things that weren’t really meant for my lips or ears at all. And I couldn’t stop, couldn’t see the drama unfolding, because I, like many of you, may just have been looking in all the wrong places.
Love isn’t about saying, or thinking, or doing. Love is about feeling.
It’s that warmth in your soul that not even the coldest winter can touch.
It’s the ache and the pain that no physical wound could ever match.
It makes your breath catch.
Love is worse than a thousand plagues, and greater than a thousand years.
If only my mere physicality could stop myself from thinking the way I do.
But I can’t help it.
I’m trying to get over you.”