having just enough love to remember, but not enough to relive
the best way i have learned myself, is rereading my journal entries. i don’t know what philosophical pack i was smoking when i was writing some of these, but i think of things in such a way that must
when thinking about what i have gone through in the past, of course it hurts, but i am an overanalyzer before i am a person at times. i will keel over the same situation from 2019 over and over again, brushing through the cracks as if ill find something shiny and new. my mother has always said, if you look for something, you will find it, something she meant as a warning turned into something i have used as reasoning. but in my searching, i am trading myself, my sanctity, and my temple, to a situation that will bring me nothing but discomfort and pain.
in one of my journal entries, i wrote about olivia dean’s the art of loving, since it had come out a few days prior. i could write a 50 page dissertation about that album, but that is not what you came here for. in my entry talking specifically about a couple minutes i explore the tension and the almost unfinished-ness of loving someone so much that you no longer can. and i wrote “having just enough love to remember, but not enough to relive”
i didn’t think anything of it when writing it, but rereading it all these months later, it feels like past me is looking me in the eyes, shaking my shoulders, begging me to wake up. let it go. sure, i wrote that originally in regards to a relationship that is no more (and not mine), but the principle applies to so much.
the daughter, destined to overthink the pacing of someones footsteps, someones shaky breath, or someones change in speech and inflection, is the thorn to my blossom. but allowing myself to love something so much, but stopping myself from repeating is a revelation i honestly struggle to articulate, this idea is barely fleshed out. yeah sure i’m writing about it right now, but i don’t even know what the next sentence is going to say.
it truly is them damn phones. we, as a collective, have turned into insatiable beasts that feed on the validation of the machine, however you define that machine. i see a lot of things in the self-help space that reduce those like me that love with no bounds, to a shell that has to sacrifice her forest and field to a pot on a windowsill. its okay to love, but your self compassion must outweigh all else. you don’t have to reduce your heart, you just have to rewrite your intention.