Isn’t it funny, how the people who pass through your life, the people you loved, leave a part of themselves ingrained within you?
I used to love chocolate, until I fell in love with a him who didn’t, and stupidly, I said I hated it too, just so we’ll have something in common. In a childish way, it worked. We became best friends until the friendship unraveled but even now, though it’s been years, I still can’t stomach the taste of chocolate. I still cling on to the belief that I hate it. Despite.
When I was eighteen, I was the sort of person who was worthy of being loved. And I was the sort of person who was ready to give love.
I was in a new country, on an adventure to somewhere and I was excited. My excitement bubbled over and I thought, there could be nothing better.
And I was right, but I was also wrong.
The problem isn’t time. It’s humans.
Human beings are always wanting; they want with no idea, and I’m filled with wild longing, but absolutely no discipline and I don’t know who I was anymore, much less who I am.
He was twenty-two when we fell and I remember the shadows playing against his back. I could pinpoint the exact moment I loved him, but I couldn’t tell you who he is anymore.
All that’s left are the memories of who we used to be, pasted into picture books to capture the great moments in my life, when I was a firework.
I used to be someone worthy of being loved, until I decided I wasn’t.
And I ran around in circles, wanting something I didn’t want. A boy to love. A man to change. A city to forgive me.
But that isn’t coming home, and I sort of get it.
The great adventure.
I’m still searching, and this is me.
I’m OK with not being the person I used to be.