Didn't like me anymore. Fell out of love, which constitutes the third time and all times of breaking up with me. I must have an intrinsic characteristic that makes them feel no love for me anymore. Even when they swore they gave me their wings.
What do I even do. Do I reject love, and the idea of never ever loving despite the betrayal that is my australopithecus neural wiring to feel an inch of excitement, dread, envy and butterflies when I inevitably look at someone I just figure I could have any chance with. Like a fox staring cautiously at the prey from far away. Closer to a predator than a knight looking to rescue and devote to his woman.
Can't deny I miss her and that acknowledging that she made the conscious decision of leaving behind my existence stings, but not as hard as it does seasoned with a couple of extra I love yous directed at her new love. Her eyes looking precious and charming but fixated on another one, one that she calls love the same way she called you, but sometimes with even much more excitement. Of course you are never going to beat the brand new shiny guy. Imperfect, charming, and with perfect dedicated devotion to her. She obviously is going to go for someone better than you. And of course you will only watch from afar. The thing you thought was uniquely yours is apparently reproducible, and she broke no sweat for that. [BECAUSE YOU WILL NEVER SEE THAT FACET]. It is a battle you cannot win, it is only through time that it will tell how shitty both of you are, or how uniquely awful you were to the little lamb.
Why are you so fixated on the love of the current to replace you and humiliate you in your thoughts, are you a cuckold? No. with tremors. It is not any gratifying to be that. But to be an example of the extreme logic. or the direct example of the futility of fantasies. It is to test your reason
Why oh why would I want to talk to you, and her, and me, and us. To a final message, that encompasses the final goodbye, like if the bye was any joyful or jolly. I mess words up, connections, neurons, expressions. All of which fall apart in trying to say to you what I want to say, because the mind cannot even wrap up if listening to the probability, the excel sheets, or the logical mathematics that should dictate if even talking or approaching should be the right thing. And I swear to god I feel like a pianist typing verbatim every known word of my limited lexicon that I try to use to tell you and express with sincerity what I desire deep within the heart of the mind, as if any replacement for the breaking, fiery bridge would suffice. No, darling, please, there is no real goodbye, as they are shadowed blankets that trick you into hiding what they really are. But pure negation.
I make this letter for you or for her, but not for you. I mean. It is not meant for you, but it is about you, for you to read, but not for you to really read.
An expression of fantasy that does not play after ten seconds, looking at your eyes, with some form of importance. As denying of pleasure it is, to believe two things at the absolute at the same time. To be loved, and to be forgotten. To sink and to drown.
I will not lie, that to tell truth is to express thoughts that will contradict me [AND WILL BE USED AGAINST ME IN COURT]. As any of my rights refrain to be used, and I pull out the I miss you card. As if any set of cheesy or corny sentences found in gift cards could encompass the complexity of all my feelings and contradicting thoughts.
They say that there are plenty of fish in the sea. But no fish is the one I wanted but you. But is that not the same said by both, and both to others, and others to both. Examining our very little size and significance will always show (as an absolute) that we are sociopathic solipsists, and therefore we shouldn't take importance in any other versions of ourselves that could be an opposite of ours, like saying I love you and only you to another person that is *(not) you. Nietzsche knew that thinking like this would only bring downfall to our society. So why not revolt yourself and let love destroy you like sharp rose thorns poking out from you. You are not the victim, you are the perpetrator of your suffering by letting yourself dance in the sweet words of promises and fantasies. Be it with you or without you. Be it with love or its absence. So why even suffer then.
The frog from the pond thought carefully, and winked with its glossy and wet eyes before saying.
I don't know by myself what alone is to the world. And what the world is to be truly alone. Truth only comes therefore from the sharp and bold words of others. But only if you truly matter yourself with that other one. Delude yourself, and it all flows correctly.