Growing

I stand, I walk, I sit. My heart smells of spoiled dreams and promises. My words hold no weight, no semblance of empathy. Yet I stand, mimicking a demeanor of one that holds meaning. None see the mistakes I hold, all too similar to be considered accidental. Yet I walk, staring through the looking glass I hide in. I mask my fear with obedience and discipline, running away from the ones that matter the most. Yet I sit, in order to play along.

Why must my criticisms of myself extend to others? Why do I refuse to learn until it’s too late? Why must I be the one to make Love hurt? Am I an echo of mistakes? Am I doomed to relearn what my ancestors have gone through? Am I learning how to love through pain?

I am in a perpetual state of mourning, lamenting each piece of myself that is lost, transformed, improved. A mourning that is equal parts selfish and humble, a seance to find the Good that I have once sought in myself. 

I know now that patience is needed for love, not to wait, but to withstand a great deal of things. Do painful experiences strengthen Love? Do gentle reminders keep it afloat? Does sin make the man? Does wonder enrich him? 

What does it take to learn how to Love? Will I ever know it? 

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