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There are things we do in secret. Things we would love to show but never do because no matter what, we know that the business of explaining why we did it would only be messier than not telling it all the same. There is the risk of being misunderstood. Too often we are judged even before we blurt out the first word of our explanations. You see, people only believe what they want to believe.

This is how I love, in secret. Because there are too many complications involved and I am not so sure if my heart is ready to handle all that. I think that we all do. We all have something we secretly love to do when we are alone, at night, while blanketed in darkness and silence. We feed our dreams and illusions with what-ifs and what-nots.

I just want to love. That’s all I want to do. And it’s annoying and painful and addictive. My head tells me to stop but I always find myself gravitating towards it, no matter how I rationalize. And I think that’s stupid. But I also know that it’s okay. It’s oaky to let go. It’s okay to kill yourself with being addicted to that feeling of complicity you so rarely find completely in another human being. Does this serve any purpose? Science and philosophy couldn’t even agree on that, but of what business is this to us, anyway. If we overanalyze things, we’ll all end up with nothing – and that’s frustating; so we may as well choose to feel something or else, what’s the point.

I have explanations inside my head, a spiderweb of philosophical ramblings that might date back to Sarte or Kant, or Keirkegaard or Plato. But nobody cares about those guys anymore. People would want to know why. People would like to see other people smeared in flaws and faults because they like to believe their lives are not as bad as it really is. The truth is, we’re all just trying to get by. And some of us don’t do it as ‘conventionally’ as others.

It’s easy to say we don’t care. But deep under that brave face we mask ourselves around is the gnawing feeling of dread. The collective insight carries its own invisible weight of objection, something that doesn’t let the conscience sleep. Despite how we stand to glorify humanity in its ‘innate goodness,’ we all know that there is more truth in how addicted we are to destroying each other; our natural tendencies for self-destruction evident in group behavior.

I need someone to tell me it’s gonna be alright. Hell yes, I myself need someone to tell me that it will work out fine. The self-contradictory self needs an external kind of affirmation. I guess it’s all just a matter of time, or perhaps a matter of getting used to. We realize just how much life demands our choices, with each step and turn. It’s a trap, because despite the selections for moving onwards, there is no option for going back.

Maybe it’s gonna be all right. Maybe I’ll just have to take this in, slowly, gradually. Dessimate myself to pieces and places that I hadn’t imagined I would venture since the beginning. I took for granted how my life was easy. I thought I was firm until I was asked by fate. Now, my answer would make one hell of a story.

I love in secret. In secrets I dwell, I spin castles in the air. And I wouldn’t have to explain to anyone why I love the way I do.

Go on. Die. Kill yourself in a good way. It will take so much sacrifices. It will include many changes. But don’t you see, you’re getting there. Die. In the best way. We’re all going there, anyway.

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