Scribbling the non-excuse

I don’t know what happened. Love should have made us free. But along the course of our lives, it hasn’t and it turned out rather nihilistic. It was liberating at first – like all firsts. So this makes me question the nature of our relationship: was it truly love? I am not one to expound this further because we both know the euphoria. Love at first dismantled the logical constructions grounding our belief and it made us utter a redundant grammar of itself: that love is the most freest act of all.

And yet even this loose overdeterminism failed and killed the joy for us. We have based our love in the first thing St. Paul attributes to it as patience. Love should be – before anything else, before it is kind, before it is not jealous, and so on – firstly patience. And I don’t know why we have grown impatient over ourselves.

Did you become selfish or did I lose my passion? Have you lost the enigma you found in me after what seemed like 48 years or have I not suited my best to meet your expectations? Should I amass all my inconsistent wills to make my long-term plans fit to your deadlines? Should I assume the slavish nature of a supermaid to nurse the brat in you all the time?

Because people get tired, sometimes patience also would lose its taste. And it makes me wonder if love really should be like this manufactured salt as a preservative and seasoning to other perishable goods but not of itself. Love demands and I know that. But I think I am not truthful to myself or to you if I will still go on with this illogical patience but without vigor – without making myself free.


Ending this right,



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