Can one lose love? Like, truly lose it. I know not everyone is capable of love in the first place. That was an unfortunate realization, when it came. But the ability to share it, create it, express it, spread it… can one lose that?
Have I lost it? Am I so salty now that cynicism and pragmatism are all that is left?
That seems so stark.
I loved too severely and enduringly and now I’ve exhausted my cache, maybe. I’ve just run out?
I think I caught a disease, y’all, the one where you get incapable of hope. I may have to resign my optimism because yes, everyone I know will one day die, we will all hurt and our hearts will break and our bodies tear up and give out and the sparkles fade from our smiles. It is all downhill. And then your dreams begin to fade and shift and there is no and sweeping solution. There is none at all.
One more time around might do it.
Perhaps it would be better without the expectation of love? Because life without it isn’t necessarily awful. I can love Mr. Frank and fireflies and open water. And anything else is a bonus. Maybe love can be lost, and I don’t know if I’ll find it again. Life can feel loveless in a raw way, and perhaps I’ll just settle with that fact. I’m tired, after all.
But c’est la vie. I told you me alone with my thoughts is frightening.