One day, you hit the point where you’re so desperate for human contact that you snap in half and all your love bleed out like egg yolk. And for you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. You fall in love with a fellow passerby you see as you're heading to workplace, who is stroking the head of a stray cat endearingly, leaving behind small pile of food for the cat to eat. You fall in love with the male protagonist of a fiction, who falls onto his knees ninety-nine times but gets back up a hundred times tirelessly and continues his fight. You fall in love with a doctor on standby inside a clinic you will never go back to when you help a stranger who collapsed from fatigue on the street. You fall in love with your best friends whose eyes sparkling in happiness as they speak about their own love interests excitedly. You fall in love with a singer from far away countries whose songs help you getting through unbearable silence.
You fall in love.
Again. And again. Repeat.
Some love you can never tell. Some love they will never accept. Some love get stomped over right after they start to bud. And such love hurts. You know that whatever you're having right now just won't do. This doesn't cut it. Nothing will grow out of this. But you can't stop. Because the stinging pain inside your heart from copious rejections is telling you that you still can feel.
That you're alive.
So you keep those feelings. But you never stop wondering, "Is being in love this lonely?" because you can only feel air. Empty. Cold. On the fingertips of your stretched out hand that nobody would take. Around you, where you can't found the warmth of another human. "You are not alone," are what people always say, but how can you believe them when you never see any other human being staying by your side? So you talk to yourself. Your hands hug your own body, hoping pieces of you won't fall apart. You whisper to yourself that it's okay to not be strong all the time because you will protect the weaker side of yourself. You tell yourself that you're allowed to cry because you will wipe away those tears with your own hands. You assure yourself that you will tend and heal your bleeding heart and there won't be any scar left.
And like always, you end up alone, suffering from having too much love.
All those love that people you want wouldn't take.
All those love but none for yourself.
z. d. imama
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