This empty page mocks me again, still, as always. I'm not even sure that I have anything worthwhile for this world anymore. I don't have any enlightening things to say. I don't have any ideas, or anything amazing to relate. I am living. I get up each morning and I do roughly the same thing as I did the day before, and the day before that, and the month before that, and the same thing that I will no doubt do tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and the month after that. I will continue to live the same day, with the same people, with the same petty problems and I will keep complaining because my life is so mediocre that I could scream. I feel like I'm in this tiny carefully built cage that does not allow me any hope of ever escaping it. And it is smothering me, and it is changing me. I have always been this girl, this girl that feels like she could literally burst at the seams. I am too much for this life. I am begging, pleading for something more, something that not only means more, but is more. I need that fairytale. I need that intrigue. I want to be the heroine in every one of those stories that I used to read when I was little. Who am I kidding? I want to be that heroine that is in every one of those books that I still read today. I want to kick ass and save the day. I want to explain something that no one else could. I want to save something. But in this small town. And in this small life. We don't get to save anything but ourselves. And I did that. It wasn't really amazing. It wasn't really attention worthy. I simply survived. I'm not sure it even constitutes as saving. At the end of it all, it was just another day. I lived. I lived to love another day. But I also lived to question love again. And always. I wonder if I will ever encounter a man where love does not fade. A man where love simply gets bigger and bigger until it could burst the seams of my life once and for all. Not that it would make my life any more, or my world any better, it would simply show me that there is something worth bursting for, something worth losing everything for. But I am forever unsure of whether that love truly exists. Does true love, that be all and end all of love really exist or is it a bullshit fairytale? I want to believe in it so badly, but I wonder if my past has not rendered me incapable. Could I be blind to it even if I do have it? I think that is what scares me the most in this world, allowing the past to ruin my present, or my potential future. This love has faded, as they all did, regardless of how differently I treated it, or how blindly I believed in it in the beginning. I did not put any barriers up this time, it could bloom to be anything that it desired, but it stopped just short of opening in to the amazing rose that it was supposed to be. So was his mistake that he showed me that he wasn't perfect, or that I wanted him to be perfect in the first place? Oh how this existence confuses me.
He made me want to see how amazing love could be again, but in the end maybe he simply showed me that love isn't everything. Love just is.
So this is me knee deep in the aftermath of second (or possibly third) love realizing that sometimes you can't explain it. Sometimes you can't put it in words and make sense of how you are feeling. Sometimes the words jumble up all meaning that it had in the first place. Because I love him, but now I have to come to terms with the fact that I am no longer in love with him, and don't quite know how to get back.