Resentment has landed where I suspected it might; difficult to avoid, nearly impossible to escape. It is a whirlpool made of snakes. Nobody, I do not believe, desires it much. It ensnares one as they attempt to afflict another. It teaches lessons about the nature of love, what love means, how it happens, and how it ends. It's as natural as any other emotion, only far more corrosive, as it occupies the empty spaces remaining, filling in the raw heart where better impulses once roamed. It is a weapon used against self, an acid that rises just to prove itself.
This, and this only.
I didn't sleep a single minute last night. Not one. I recited one half of many conversations to myself, again and again. They were not resentful, but rather filled with the fresh remorse of having let some go.
A return to love, of sorts, though of a vastly different shape.
A return to love, of sorts, though of a vastly different shape.
.
