The Fear Of Love And How It May All Fall Apart Again


A lot of things go through my mind as I look at the remains of what I have left of me. A room of reinforced ceilings, holes from paintings of past snapshots covered with putty on the walls that have been painted over with a tinge of neutral brown.

Boxes in the corner of the room labeled, ‘to forget’ with a world map on the wall stuck with red pins of to go’s. Though the pieces are still there and put back together on my own, the fear of it falling apart again and all at once overwhelms me, striking fear into my heart. It’s terrifying. Electrically terrifying.

There are lots of words that come to my mind when I think of you. I fear our beginnings, what the future holds for us with or without each other, even if time and modernity has led us to cross paths today. Not everything associated with you is bad, though. I laugh sometimes, we tease sometimes.

It feels weird sometimes, a foreign language created by the past girl I agreed readily to forget. Because the last time that happened, I thought I understood what it meant to love and that reinvented the whole meaning of what it meant when “shit, hits the fan.” 

Before I met you, meeting someone was a practical method to know whether I had wanted the same things I did when I was younger. Very much like a practical on a science examination. I craved to test myself and my limits to sink or float in all other aspects of my life, and somehow every situation that I had been through gave me only those two choices to deal with. I had never expected the outcome of today to turn out the way it did.

Each day you get a step closer, I fight that very strong instinct to run as far as I can away from anything that can be detrimental to me, I fight against being attuned to my flaws that make me unlovable and pitch my feelings as unattainable, I fight to stay where I am, instead of moving two steps away from you.

It is presumptuous of me to think that life would have it any easier for me. You are not repulsive, so please don’t ever think that for a second. You might not notice or realize how hard it is for me to talk about things close to my heart, because I am stuffed with second guesses of you. It is not a fault of your own, but a defect of mine that I choose to feed, admittedly. I was told not once, but many times of being too believing, too idealistic, and too gullible.

Everything that never made any form of a determinant to keep around or be a constant. The more you ask about my past, the more the urge I want to tell. The idea of letting you know me through and through sounds exciting. But the fear talks me out of looking weak, being weak, and only spontaneity can aid me in reconstructing a mutual fondness to you, which exists and debates against the feelings felt that are insistent on rejecting. 

They say your second love is the one that’s worth keeping around, because they chose to love you in a perilous time of your own self-disdain and distrust.  I won’t call you my second love, because I don’t think I fully understand what it means to love, yet. All I can give you-if you are contented with is that -when I think of you, I laugh.

I am thankful we found each other in such a strange, strange world, despite the circumstances or differences. I hope you stick around through my good and bad days, and I hope I’ll stick around for yours. Hope isn’t a very grand idea to be trifled with but it’s better than a commitment, which I don’t think either of us are ready for yet. 

In the meantime, I’ll tell myself to put one foot in front of the other. That’s all I can afford to do, a step away from past tears, a step towards laughter and happiness, a step away from whatever memory has been sustained of the past, and a step towards my goals, dreams, and aspirations. 

One foot in front of the other. That’s something that I know that I have in me that I can do.

Only soldiers trudge. Ladies, walk.

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