Sentimental moments. Holding hands for the first time. Catching a glimpse of happiness and joy in another’s eye. A smile that makes me feel good about myself for once. A body lying next to mine. A kiss. A simple touch.
Every time, I fall into the belief that these moments are the moments that I need to remember for the rest of my life. Every time I think that this might be my last first kiss. The last time of being vulnerable. The last time I look into a new set of eyes.
Something always stops me.
If in every relationship comes an end and comes with pain…then what’s the point in putting my heart out on the line? What’s the point in getting close to someone, if in the end I’ll just be missing what could’ve been? What’s the point in looking for more, when in the end you have no idea what you are looking for? What’s the point in saying the words ‘I love you’, if they are nothing but lies dropping from one’s lips?
People just say what they think the other person wants to hear—no one’s honest and true to their feelings. Not even me.
People fall in and out of “love” like it’s a fad, like a pair of designer jeans. They promise lies and twist the truth; misinterpret infatuation for love. Infatuation is the work of a fairytale in the mind. Making the sentimental moments seem like bliss and the way life should be. But actual love…love, is ugly. You get to the point where they become part of you, where you get used to them being your second half. And you start to take them for granted. In times you are actually reminded of them, and how big they are in your life, you would do anything for them—no matter what the cost, no matter the pain or the blood involved. Most of the time it gets to that point and it’s too late.
I almost prefer the infatuation over love. Take the dream over reality. Take the sentimental moments, that you think mean the world at the time—rather than a life that is too comfortable until it falls apart and ruins your life. For me, now, it never gets past the infatuation…it never gets to love.
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve for the longest time. I’ve had this shirt beaten and ripped; worn down and faded from elements in life. The heart isn’t held together anymore—it’s holding on by just a few strings of thread. I want to believe in the love ever after and the whole nine yards. But past experiences and observations of the real world is doing nothing but ruining that dream and warns me of the danger that comes in believing it.
Sometimes I fall into believing again. The sentimental moments—they always get me. They patch up the sleeve on my shirt and make the heart hope again. I always end up disappointed. I can’t help but to be a dreamer though. I just need to be careful for what I dream.