We become so easily caught up in the self-imposed mechanics of love that we too often forget to enjoy it for all its intended presence — its quiet, indisputable now-ness.
Backward as it might sound, people tend to love being around us, the self-diagnosed unloveables, the out-and-proud low self-esteem-ers. We relieve the expectations of love, divert the attention, turn our endless sorrows into the punch lines of an unwritten sitcom pilot.
Perhaps happiness, the lasting kind, comes from embracing the quiet loveliness of our own insignificance — relieving ourselves of the responsibility that comes with the never-ending chase.
I should be able to look at you objectively, in all your importance and all your insignificance, and I should be able to shrug. But I can’t.
The ink to a pen, the feather to a wing, the star to a galaxy; we’re specks of dust caught in the howling winds of a desert storm. Together, we turn the sky red.
We remember the way they held us, the way they kissed us, the way they made us feel so secure, so reassured.
I should’ve pushed through the crowd, I should’ve navigated the mess of drunken patrons and moved in your direction; placed you in my path. I should’ve said hello.
We’re all just a little tired, a little lost, a little stuck on our respective paths, waiting for something or someone to intercept us – waiting for a smile or an expression of understanding.
I suspect it wouldn’t be such an issue if Instagram actually showcased the truth; if it showed your ex vomiting over a toilet seat or lying, bloated, in the feverish grip of a hangover.
It’s walking to the wine shop while listening to that song you love and buying the second-cheapest bottle of wine — because even though you have no money, you deserve to be treated.