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I write verbose posts about polyamory, love, lust, and self-discovery on my other blog Victoria's Imaginarium.

Saturday, September 11, 2010


Monologue: After all this while, have I made myself deserve you better than before?

There is one way to stop my pain. But I don’t want to consider trying. Not even a thought on it.

Even breathing softly I can still feel the pain. My pain, it is a kind of delusion. You build it up. You disillusion me. Then you build it up again. Without even knowing how the delusion hurts me. Could you be unintentionally doing it? I dunno. I don’t mind. What I do mind is putting burden on you—which is why I mute myself and utter not a single word about my sufferings. You want your life simple. You want yourself simple. And you want your love simple. While me, I just want to love you. So I follow your rules. I do not complicate things. And I do not put you in vexation. I obey all your commandments and uphold them without a question asked.

I see how love makes my soul leaden, and I don’t want you to be like me.

This is why even when I know your beliefs and fears blindfold you, I never forcefully make you face your heart honestly. Not that I am making myself slave-like, walking within your shadow. I could have conquered love. But I simply do not want to mess you up. You claimed something else. You said it like there is never going to be a change, like it is going to stay that way, forever. Fine. I understand. But I don’t see things through your eyes, because I know more. I know I love you. I know I weigh in your heart, too. And I know you want to hide away from your feelings. You don’t want yourself to realize how much you care about me. What you want is not what I want. I let go.

Because after all, I want you to have what you think the best is more than anything else. It is this simple.

So will I be her—the one you want to spend your life with and be with till the end? Never have the question come across my mind until the pain shows me some images of you holding her hands, with your eyes full of commitment. I wish I were her. And here comes another striking of acidic pain—which we call jealousy.

Then I can’t think anymore. I let my head goes empty. Blank.

Only when I quit thinking of you and me my pain can ease; and only when the pain eases, I can continue loving you.

Sometimes it is so difficult to get rid of you. Like now. So I write. Spell my love into alphabets and let the process soothes me. Writing is my painkiller; but it only anaesthetizes me. The pain is still there, just that I can’t feel it anymore. And when I write, hope arises—that one day, after reading all these you will finally be willing to say that you love me. Stupid eh? So stupid that I want myself to drop all hopes. You see, when I have no hopes I won’t get disappointed; when I don’t get disappointed, there will not be a reason for my love to die off. I want to love you until I can no more find any strength to carry on.

You deserve my love, but do I deserve you?

I’m losing my faith.

Crazenne (2009)

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