I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love
for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because
Ilove you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood. -Pablo Neruda
The last time I wrote was exactly five months ago. I was preoccupied...but more than that, I've been going through excruciating emotional pain that, unfortunately, I must harbor alone in silence. The sacrifices that I take will be all worth it in the long run. Everyone will be happy, everyone except me. But then again, good things come to those who wait. I'm weary, trying to put sudden outbursts in check, feeling less human, a tad divine...not a hint of arrogance here, rather a sophisticated and modest way of accepting bitterness.
Meantime, I'm still very cognizant of the fine line between love and insanity. On which side of the line I am currently on is something that I'm quite irresolute about. I don't know if there's a chance for that elusive state of mind called bliss, but hope stands unwavered.
If you see me with a smile from ear to ear, give me a hug...behind the smile is a strong longing for assurance that everything, eventually, will be just fine.
