| | "Love is a blind whore with mental disease and no sense of humour."
Seconded.
Jet-setting traveler. Master of languages and cultures abound. Loyal friend of many, unforgettable encounter of more, whirlwind lover of the fortunate. That was going to be me. Success left and right in the form of money and recognition. An exciting adventure of a life.
And then, at nineteen years of age, I contracted a fatal virus. I fell in love. Now every day is a struggle between the things I desire: would I rather have that life described beforehand (sans excess lovers, if the man who has my heart can really handle my absence the way he seems to imagine he can)? Or is there a greater longing in me to stay close to my heart and build a home around it? Do I even deserve that home when I cannot come out and say the few, simple words I refuse to allow escape? If I can't be honest, if I can't say what it is I would love to share with this person who has become so special in such a short time, then why worry about it?
A life that could potentially be alone, giving up or at least putting unnecessary strain upon something which is incredibly rare in this day and age. Or a life that could potentially leave me unsatisfied and wondering about the world outside of my safe abode.
At the age a of nineteen, I once again am faced with indecision.
Balls.
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| | Posted 4/11/2009 12:29 PM - 10 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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