I’ve been thinking about love. And my conclusions are quite sad, because I had to realize I’ve probably never been loved. Truly loved.
There were some people who was attracted to me, ’cause they liked trouble and hated boredom. They adored me, and I thought it was love, but I was so terribly wrong. They were chaos junkies. They loved the storms and the thunder around my life. It was only a wicked addiction. I was their drug and when they overdosed, they left. They never loved me.
There were some people who thought I could be their savior. They were lost, desperate outsiders, and I was attracted to them, because I fond of the twisted and the bizarre. I felt sorry for them. I wanted to fix them. They misunderstood my interest and had faith in me. They mixed up my love with my passion, believed that they were finally loved. They were grateful for my caring, and when they got healed or figured out I’m not a goddess, they left. They never loved me.
There were people who tried to save me. From my disease, from my fate, from myself. Some of them were like me, and I was just a strange hobby for them. Others had this weird guardian angel complex, and were suffering from the constant urge to make everyone happy around them. They were gentle and kind, they were always there for me, and I thought I was loved, but it was a mistake. It was just their nature. They never loved me.
And now I’m tired. I don’t want any more everyday heroes or bothered souls in my life. I don’t wanna be anyone’s project, and I’m out of the energy for piecing together broken people. So I shut them out and now I’m totally alone. It’s not as awful as it sounds. I’m relieved, and I feel like I’m… pure. I cut the bullshit and I’m getting ready for love. To give and to receive.
It’s time to reborn.