I have always been the one who cares more, in a world that concerns itself with such labels. I think it is simply my lot in life to love people who can’t love me back. At least not in the way I love them. And I have never been able to give my heart to those who wanted me more than I wanted them. Perhaps it is a curse. I have never known the blessing of mutual love, and it would seem I am always and only destined for heartbreak.
To me, love is the essence of life. I crave it at dawn. I get lost in its thoughts and wonders during the day. And by dusk, it leaves me feeling wretched if I have not experienced it. I have never not been in love; I do not know how to be without it. And I fall in love way too easily – with the one whose smile lingers a little too long at a café, with the one whose conversation left me in awe, and with the one who I can never seem to let go of, at any given time. I must talk to him. I must know how he is doing. I must know if there is still hope for us.
I used to question if all of this just meant I am addicted to sadness; to the pain and suffering of false hope, and certain heartbreak. I have questioned myself time and time and again, and yet I found the answer to be no. What I want is real love: A love that you have to suffer for, a love that you would die for in a moment’s notice, and without asking. The kind of love that not even death can keep you from, and a love that terrifies the masses. A love that nobody wants to believe in anymore – this is the love I want.
And perhaps I have often been far too eager to find that love, and perhaps I have gone looking for it in the wrong arms, and when the timing is bad, and when nothing in my life is right. But when will anything in life be perfect or even right? When will the intensity of these emotions be matched? When can I show the world that this love that I have and believe and profess, does not exist just in my imagination? That it can exist if we want it to. Because no matter how much I want to get away from feeling these feelings all the time, I know I’ll never stop. And maybe a part of me doesn’t want to ever stop.
I will never believe in a life without this kind of love, and I will always think of anything less than, as inadequate. If being the girl who loves too much means that I break my own heart over and over again, then I will be that girl. I will be hurt a million times over and I will cry myself to sleep too often at night. And I will wake up and do it all over again. But this love is what keeps me sane in this maddening world; this love is all I have, and it is all that I have to live for. This love is who I am. And loving me, if that ever comes to pass, will mean loving this kind of love too.