I can spend my life loving someone deeply, thinking of no one else, because my pure and genuine feelings reside solely within me. Yet, this slowly wears me down. The person I loved is no longer who I knew they were the one who waged war against my darkness, approaching me with warmth and embracing me with absolute sincerity. In a way, loving like this brings me comfort; it shields me from the emotional and physical pain of offering myself to others. But it is also a profound torment. Loving an illusion, something no longer real, feels incredibly empty. To cope, I sometimes give others a chance and let them into my life, which brings a fleeting sense of satisfaction. But with each passing day, I am starting to resent my own body and my very self. I am wasting away, both spiritually and physically. When I look in the mirror or touch my own skin, I see someone who is slowly crumbling a devastating agony. I constantly wonder: which torment is better, which is more right? I know there is no manual for this. Should I try to love again? No. I don’t want to love someone new, nor do I have it in me. I just want the comfort of the space I know loving and valuing them, even if they are gone, even if it’s no longer real. By offering myself to other people and opportunities, I am merely resurrecting a dead past, constantly replaying the same tragic theatrical act. And this play brings me the deepest of sorrows. Still, even if it isn't real and they are no longer here, the mere ability to love them feels so much more peaceful. It is a safe past at least, as long as I ignore the parts of it that aren't real. The thought of impulsively surrendering myself to this imaginary realm feels good. Which pain is truly more agonizing? We will never know.
Weight painting is worse
