You could still think the world of someone for months or even years later hoping for rejoice when that hope is imaginary and nonexistent. Then, you begin to question yourself, "is love real or a concept made by humans to manipulate them for greed and corruption?" or "is love a vacation from the real world, eventually ending in a mismatch?" You sit there waiting for the train to return when it doesn't. It's almost like the feeling of pay day except working without a salary. Working, staring time down to clock out, except never getting to.
You read them your novel of cognitive metaphors, thinking they'd catch on. You'd repeatedly open your heart for this person, hoping they internally feel the same way back, but don't. No injury can plague the bodies of humans like praying to come back home and hold the key again. As time continues, the body deters to the dark side of this black and white world.
No one else understood beauty as such.
They saw the glimmer that glamorizes the golden body. They experienced the softest, most sensitive secrets that secrete somber silence to others. They were there for love, now a fragmented, frail fallacy to the argument.They tell you to write your emotions but it still doesn't conceal the pain, pain is forever, love is temporary. The scary thought of this is they could think of you as a musical note, whereas you think of them as a symphony, an orchestra, maybe even more powerful than one of Beethoven’s masterpieces.
You can be a blob of paint, whereas they're your in-depth painting, articulated with emotion in each stroke. You can be a stone, whereas they are your perfectly carved sculpture, showing the truth behind your thought of love. You think of them as blood, necessary to fulfill life processes. No other liquid can be replaced for blood, they're the only ones that satisfy the requirements on consciousness.
The blind can never process the truth, it'd kill them on the spot. Having the only person that made you feel like the jokers in a deck of card, the Miss Universe winner, the prized possession that you'd never lose, have their ideas be dead cold by the recent ones of new and fresh rather than old and decomposed. Hell would feel like heaven compared to being raggedy and used all up. Home will not be open today, nor will it ever.
Love is like a song, you listen to it a million times, get sick of it, and move on to the next latest hit. You feel hopeless, in an obsolete universe full of feelings you want to dispose of, but can't. It's like a stain on a white shirt, no matter how much you bleach it, the stain will still reside there. You can do anything to it, but that stain will appear and be noticed every time you wear that shirt. We're all pointless people living in a world not of ours. Our dream world awaits. Life will never be satisfied after your first. When will we meet again, maybe once my hell ends as I simmer into infinity?
