I am learning to grow out of my shell. I am also learning life is not as clear as I hoped it’d be when it comes to love.
I find myself craving it more and more. Sometimes I torture myself by thinking I need to be more mature in order to love someone and be loved back. Other times I tell myself I am ok with being my own, and that self-love matters above all. I have even considered the possibility of being asexual or aromantic, or a combination of the two if that’s even possible. And the list of failed attempts grows on, failed seeds of love that withered before they were put to good soil. Maybe I am bad earth. And I know I’m not the only one when it comes to heartbreaks (if you could call them that, my heart is seldom touched), but in the end it all goes back to the same thing: I long for love I’ve never had.
But it’s myself, I am my own pressure, I am my own fear. Have I ignored every attempt from every man that’s ever been interested in me? In my attempt at finding perfect romance, have I overlooked reality?
I can feel my body changing, growing older, a time-bomb ticking. I don’t want to be 30 years old and finally finding love. Of course love is enough and it’s wonderful, but then what is the point of my youth? I’m in my prime and I want to share that with somebody. I want to try every single coffee house this city has to offer holding hands with someone. I want to push the boundaries of kissing until it’s morally questionable, I want to be so drunk in love with someone the idea of spending time alone, sitting here writing this sad longing, feels like nothing more than a very dull dream.
dreamlessons 