That one November night

It’s a November night. Someone confesses their love to you. You sit back and consider all the possibilities with this person. You text your friends, telling them how sweet that person is, bragging about their kindness and the energy wealth they bring into your life.

You keep the phone down and wait by it for that person to call. You think it feels good because it is good. You think about the next haircut you’re gonna get. All the restaurants you can visit together. And then in a split of a second, in a spur of a moment your mind races back towards the similar feelings you felt before.

That happy rush, that iconic courage to risk the world for this love. And that scares the daylights out of you. You admit everything you had been feeling, the text to friends, the future plans, an urge to pushback negative and see the light—all was a way to keep your brain busy.

Because you are still scared. Terrified—of being pushed down to the ceaseless storm of heartbreak and pain. You thought you got over it but that fear never vanished, it always had been there—hiding, crawling on the floor to grab you the moment it could.

You want to feel the love again, you wish to embrace the openness of those little talks under the tree, of those shared cups of coffee, of those uncomplicated, unwrinkled emotions, of no stretch-marks timidness but you forgot.

You forgot when did the wall around the chambers of your heart skyrocketed and became impenetrable that nothing reaches you anymore. It’s sad. Really sad. When happiness is knocking at your door and you can’t scream out I DON’T KNOW HOW TO BREAK DOWN A WALL.

But try. Trying makes things possible.


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