I’m not sure what it meant. I used to be constantly at my feet; worried that this preexisting romance would vanish long before I was satisfied with it. The rule having been that I would never be satisfied enough. Yet, at this point, I found myself waving away the possibilities; shrugging at the incapability of the love continuing, not worrying much on whether or not it could proceed. Most times, I did not care at all.
I watched myself as I fed no interests to my heart, whilst feeling no pain if the romance burned thin. I no longer methodically knew how to care. This scared me a little. Yes, I did feel a sense of empowerment. I was once deafened by my beating heart; I was defeated by it. But now I was able to silence it. Alter it. And when the inevitable ache of loss would invade my territory, I would let it travel through momentarily, I would let my mind and heart feel the torment, then I would close it off. Think of something else; feel something else.
It is possible to deceive yourself; to insist that you no longer care. I lied to myself every day until it eventually became the truth. Have you ever shrugged away your losses? Trust me, it works. It was a strange feeling, being able to walk away from things you thought would forever control you. But sometimes I would view myself in the mirror, and I would see it. The emptiness fading in and out of my pupils. My eyes were lightless; vacant. There were dark signs of unhappiness circling my eye lids. They were droopy- hanging like dangling deceased arms.
And it became transparent; I was tired of being cavalier. Exhausted with not caring. I was unhappy with the realization that I was so prone to disappointment, I no longer yearned for gratification.
Those things have become miracles in my mind. And even when you’re granted these tormented miracles, you become too concerned with the fear that they’ll be taken away; far too busy anticipating when they will be ripped from your gripping little fingers that it is proven impossible to experience the happiness through all the sweat beads situated on your forehead.
And when the moment finally reveals itself and your beloved, part-time miracle is stripped from you, the most upsetting portion is that in the heap of all calamity, all you can feel is relief taking over. Relaxing soreness that the moment has finally come, the torture has seized; the anticipation departed. You can at last go back to having nothing to lose. Because it has become my belief that love only hurts when you’re doing it right, but why allow the injury if someone else is doing it wrong?
Maybe those dark circles dwelling around my eyes were a good thing, a reminder, a constant visual that once full, twice empty. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I missed the warm remembrance of care. Perhaps strength isn’t primarily based on the defense and blockage of pain but on how well you can risk your own comfort in the likelihood that you may find a higher level of satisfaction and happiness. I spent a great deal of time trying to conjure some sort of response; yet, I couldn’t guarantee myself an answer. All I knew was one thing, there must be something wrong when you’ve learned how to fall out of love more than how to fall into it.