10: Doing things in half-measures (literally because I’ve omitted so much of the original entry) [written 17 August 2015]

10: Doing things in half-measures (literally because I’ve omitted so much of the original entry) [written 17 August 2015]

You hope that the one is still out there for you because despite everything, you know that your happiness should come first and if your SO isn’t out there, at least you could settle with someone who loves you to bits. And with that someone who loves you to bits, you wouldn’t mind trying to love them back. It wouldn’t hurt right? Yet somehow you can envisage all the wrong things happening. He loves you to bits, but you don’t love him. When he kisses you with fiery passion you can only think of hot, burning tears rolling down your cheeks from underneath your closed eyelids because you wish you were sharing that kiss with someone else. When he hugs you from behind, you close your eyes and pretend that it was someone else. And in the middle of the night, you have to disentangle yourself from him so that you can escape to the guest room or even escape the house, because it’s that painful to live with someone whose love you cannot hope to reciprocate. You think about running to the nearest park in the dead of night, completely vulnerable and open to attack, but you’re so beyond the point of caring because this pain, this foreign pain is too much to bear. You think about this kind of life everyday. How painful it must be for you but how well you are hiding it, and how long could you live this life for? For someone who wants to be with someone you love, and with that same someone loving you, you could probably survive a week or less.

The inability to reciprocate that love would drive you mad. Mad enough to leave the house, leave the town and never come back. Mad enough to drive to nowhere and run out of petrol on a deserted road in the middle of the night. Mad enough to run away and of course, change your identity and live someplace else. Because think about it, if you ever came back, imagine the pained look on his face. He did so much for you, did everything he could to win your love, but in the end, it turns out that you never loved him at all? You think about how if he commits suicide, you’ll have nothing that loves you in the same way that he did. You think about how your selfish act of stupidity would be enough to make him realise that some other girl is more deserving of his love than you are. And so you change your identity anyway, to leave all that behind. And then in another scenario, you’d wake up in the middle of the night, disentangle yourself from him and go to the kitchen. Not for food, but to sit down at the counter and have intense deep thinking time for yourself. You wouldn’t mind thinking about how you could’ve chosen to settle down with someone that you loved. You don’t mind, well, you wouldn’t mind crying your eyes out about how you couldn’t be with that one guy from high school simply because you were too good for him. You wouldn’t mind crying your eyes out about how you know you’re torturing the one you’re living with by not loving him back. You wouldn’t mind crying every night at half past 2 in the morning over regrets like these. You wouldn’t mind at all, because drowning yourself in melancholia is what you’re the best at…and if he ever asks you why you were crying, well you’d have a well-prepared lie ready because the pained look on his face would be enough for you to run into the streets of the nightlife and never look back. All of this is so scary and so foreign to you – why are you even thinking like this? You’re sixteen, not thirty, but even so…you feel like crying every night at 3 am anyway because this one guy you have a crush on doesn’t like you back in the same way. You’d rather go back to sleep now and have sweet dreams of him fawning over you, but you’ve done more than enough to trick your brain into feeding you images of the false. You’d rather stay awake and think about fantasies, creating them and viewing them over and over in awe of yourself.

This is all you have, because you’ve thrown away, sold the old canvas to the very one you mistrust the most. Most of all, you wish to create another fantasy with these images, but you cannot bring yourself to create pictures filled with happiness when all you feel is emptiness, melancholia and exhaustion. …

~ Serendipitous

P.S. Real mixed with not real. It’s hard to believe. Writers live in their own heads all the time. Some things are only real within the mind of the writer and not within the mind of the reader.

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