Love's Fractured Symphony

In the intricate dance of love — be it romantic, self-love, or any other form — there lies a mischievous essence. Neglect it for a few undiligent weeks, and you risk losing fragments of yourself, your essence dissipating with each passing sunrise and sunset. Love demands attention, a focused dedication that cannot succumb to cruise control. It's a relentless journey of cultivation, requiring diligence and presence. Otherwise, it slips away gradually, leaving you disoriented, empty, and bewildered.

Love doesn't shatter in one swift motion; it breaks in tiny fractures, accumulating until it crashes. Often, we remain oblivious until it screeches at us, offering a small warning to change course, almost too late.

This subtle erosion of love can extend beyond romantic relationships — it can seep into the love for oneself, life, friends, family, routines, passion, and work. Time, relentless and impartial, slips away, and love, in any form, is a speeding train. If you don't hold onto it, if you don't stay vigilant, it can leave you behind, breathless and lost.

Days shouldn't speed past without contemplation, for in that haste, we risk losing ourselves. Life can move on, with or without our active participation, challenging the notion that we are the drivers of our own existence.

I have a tendency to abandon myself when life gets tough. I shed the parts that need nurturing and enter survival mode, limiting my capabilities and access. I lose trust in myself, reacting harshly to every demand placed upon me. I yearn for an escape where my name and identity can easily change, where I can live with the chaos in my mind by becoming someone new. Yet, wherever I go, there I am, but I excel at convincing myself that I am anew. I become adept at fleeing a life I can no longer tolerate, leading to the abandonment of everything, including love, goodness, and light.

This isn't pride speaking; it's a purification, a desire to empty myself of self-inflicted suffering. To stop loving myself is to retreat to what's familiar, to find comfort in negativity, sadness, and harsh reactive thoughts. There's a perverse joy in not allowing myself to be loved, even when surrounded by those who dare to love me.

I understand how love can break easily, how one can lose sight of life despite it being right in front of them. Living without truly living, loving without feeling, and feeling without letting it hit deep are not contradictions but simultaneous truths for those drowning in plain sight.

I used to soothe this heaviness with alcohol, but I'm attempting a different approach. It feels challenging to resist the culturally-approved escape, yet I'm determined to face my own mind. I contemplate conforming to a "normal" life, following the flow of others, questioning the reasons behind my actions and the recurring climax in my story.

Turning thirty hasn't been the carefree adventure I expected. I've spent six months questioning everything without finding answers, distancing myself from guidance and insight. Life has slipped away, cracking and fragmenting, ready to crash. But within this chaos, I find solace in rising from my own ashes, watching the purification unfold.

So, I recommit to myself and to love. I rediscover a steady footing, even if it's a few rungs lower on the ladder than I remember. I start climbing again because ceasing to climb is akin to a slow death. I seek love in unlikely places, in smaller moments, and remember forgotten joys. I evaluate their relevance, staying gentle with myself in a world that demands hardness.

No matter how many times love fractures, for myself or others, I pledge to find my way back to wholeness. The form may differ, arriving in a package unfamiliar, but I'll recognize it by the familiar grooves of myself. The pieces will fit together eventually, and in the space between knowing and waiting, where the mind can run away, I tread cautiously. This is the tricky space, the divide I find myself in now. So, I wait.

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