We don’t find redemption or perseverance. We don’t find bereavement or pleasure. We seek derivatives and wish for something that explains the dreary bullshit that fills us. I don’t know if commitment is my oven, or if waiting tells me to hold on, but I know I’ve become numb to the love so expressive in our souls.
I was made to love, and I wish I had the care inherent in the weakest rain. But I know I cannot strive to fulfill anyone else until I have fulfilled myself.
It’s the hardest decision I’ve made. To take the possibilities and weigh the depressive outcomes. To take each luck of the draw and realize my possibilities without succumbing or dreaming. Fantasy presses on my reality like an ice cube on a hot sea. Melting to the desire of the surrounding waters, and giving way to larger creatures. Yet I want to advise and believe that there is something greater than all of us.
That someone watches our little loves and rewards the stretches and realizes the strives we take to love.
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