my heart bleeds out like a broken bucket

I should just stop entertaining unattainable fantasies and shut my eyes and sleep.

At times it takes

Lifetimes to see

The truth lying in

Front of me.

And then it

Only trickles down,

What does being in love mean, really?

is it all consuming? so much so that separation renders me useless. unworthy of any pursuit, other than the subject of my adoration. is it like a light at the end of the tunnel? this was the most popular metaphor for salvation that i could think of.  or the eye of the hurricane? the one point that anchors your feet to the ground. the feeling must be powerful. that steadying force must be the only one capable of defying gravity.

this is only my understanding from books that i read growing up, which only portrayed ideal scenarios with no longevity. because, every story had a beginning, middle and end. and they end. with no way of knowing what happens next. its whether they would even make an effort to accommodate each other equally. or whether they really do live happily ever after.

its for me to decide. me, the reader who’s been granted absolute freedom by the writer.

so very obviously there are gaping holes in my understanding. and very obviously reality got omitted out of my definitions of love. and obviously i understand how flawed that is and how it could be fatal.

as someone who keeps falling in love with an idea of a person, i always pictured music playing in the background every time i spoke to the one i absolutely adored, or thought i’d be up all night writing poetry of yearning. i always imagined exchanging shy smiles and accidently brushing my arm against theirs. they'd take one look at my eroded nails, and that one look of acceptance would be worth all the years wasted on not believing in myself. and i thought love is the answer- the answer to all the questions of life.

but that’d be exhausting.

my thoughts keep shifting and molding in congruence with my moods and feelings. its never just one or the other and my opinions overlap. but, after a lot of introspection, i’ve realised that its so difficult to like the person you love. its difficult to give up your space, to open up the doors to your inner self and share; with no prisoners taken.

now what i think is, love is a habit. its just knowing you’re never ever alone even though you’re lonely. its strength. its knowing all the words to your favourite song. its all the things you do, without thinking. its tolerance. yes, its mundane but there’s also so much comfort in the familiarity. its to hold someone’s gaze in empathy when all else fails.

to write this with coherence was much harder than i expected. i’m still on the fence about whether the books were right or wrong, but they will always remain my point of reference. or its harder to frame an opinion simply because i’ve never fully experienced it.