At the moment, I think that lust is, in some ways, less exasperating and more satisfying than love. Familiar, mesmerising, and fleeting, it can be set off anytime, anywhere. Most people crave the one they believe to be perfect for them because they're in love with the notion of being in love. In actuality, their naivety and lack of experience make it harder for them to cope with how unpredictable people are and how this unpredictability can taint and destroy relationships.
It has been nine months since we parted. Some say that after the breakup, I've become pessimistic. I can say that I'm not bitter; I'm better. Like a cut, life following a breakup begins to recover after the primary anguish, resulting rage, and final acceptance that it wasn't meant to be. Everything seems to be moving forward on the surface, but beneath it all, memories from the past return, eager to shape themselves into the current puzzle. When history catches up with the present, you can't help but question where we went wrong. Like a scab that could've, should've, would've, but didn't heal because you picked at it, so was the relationship that could've, should've, would've, but didn't survive because you did something deliberately off-beam.
Why is growing up a compulsory thing? I want to stick a band-aid over my problems, but it's more difficult at twenty-two than it was at twelve. I can't ask for a pardon, plead for a second chance, or build a time machine to go back and fix everything. In real life, you can't force someone to love you; you can only try to charm them and hope that they will cave.