The issue with desiring others to care for your feelings is that a lot of communication must occur in cases where you wish communication didn't have to occur. You meet, have many positive experiences, and conjure an alternate reality where that ounce of greatness that you saw in the other person surely has the potential to infiltrate every other side of his or her psyche. You begin to overlook the rotten parts. You attempt to fit them into a mold of perfect potential, an arduous process that requires abundant patience, self-doubt, and sacrifice. This is okay because you imagine they're likely doing the same. The ongoing internal debate on whether this is worthwhile ends with constant victory to the more optimistic, perhaps a little sadder, side of you. It takes time to realize the impossibility of this process.

It hits one day. At once, a brilliant image you painted is gone, and you stand alone in a scene of make-believe, traumatized by what you've done to yourself. It burns deeper when that dismal epiphany is shared, and they, too, look to you with an expression of disbelief. "Then why are you with me," they ask, and you have no answer. This wasn't the answer. You weren't the answer.


Guichanaso