a jaded kind of beautiful

How is it that guilt consumes me every time they call me a masochist or every instance they try to instill in my thick-walled brain that I’m just wasting my time, yet there’s a strange sense of fulfillment that awaits at the tip of my toes? It feels awful that I know I’m not cutting nearly enough for myself and that I’m severely punishing me for the things that happened between us - they even tell me you don’t deserve me anymore because of what you did, - but even I can’t deny it feels so damn good to have the billionth chance, however little, of starting over.

All these people around me know I’m being a fool for hopelessly waiting, rather than being the one you’re supposed to chase. But I’m tired. It’s exhausting to have to weigh your pride and your affections just because you don’t know how to save yourself anymore. Well, I don’t know how to save myself anymore. I don’t even know what’s there left to save. But just this little while, you make me feel as if I’ve never been abandoned. It’s as though nothing happened and nothing changed… and it feels so damn good.

If I think of what’s supposed to happen, this is probably the wrongest thing. To give myself away again and to forgive too easily. But how can I do otherwise when I’m finally facing the cliche of being torn between what I want and what’s right? The right thing is to be selfish and think of finally forgetting and finding someone better. The right thing is to let you know of how much it hurt and how my trust can never be regained anymore. The right thing is to try and mend this fragmented friendship between us just so we never pull each other down when we try to pick ourselves up. It just so happened that all I want for me is what’s wrong.

Do I really regard myself that little? That’s the question that’s been bothering me for a while now. February, I let you desert me without another word or reason, I didn’t even call to blame you for leaving or to demand an explanation because I know you were happy at the time. I loved you and I couldn’t make you happy so I let you go even though I had to hold myself together for my sake. I don’t know what happened after that but now it just feels so good to make you laugh and smile that way at me again and admittedly, just with that I am happy too, but a part of me knows it’s all echelons of wrong. Because this is about your happiness again.

I can’t bring myself to be selfish and run as fast as I can. I can’t choose the better part of my judgment because given our happiness and mending myself, I will always choose me and you. It will take all the power I have to run away from this and everyone knows I’ve been at the point of utmost vulnerability for quite a time now. Bottomline is, it hurts every way to have to choose between falling all over again or picking myself up for good.

It hurts even more because this is something I don’t believe, something I never believed in. You give me the time of day and spin me around your little finger while we play. I pull you down and push you away over and over just so there’s distance to skip again. But we never leave, not really. We can’t live with but we can’t breathe without the other - what we have is something so intense no one could ever fathom it, not even us. What’s mere happiness in the face of all that?

So I don’t close these doors even though I know this time I won’t recover. You’ve just come back to haunt me and if I let myself be consumed by whatever this is again, I’ll be lost and it will hurt. It will hurt far too much and I will end up with nothing. But somehow it’s okay. Maybe this will all be worth it. Maybe doing what’s right for me isn’t the most important thing anymore, maybe it never was. Somehow I know everything I do is useless because in the end, I’ll always fall right back.


In the end, this will always consume me.

L’amour fou.