I used to think love and happiness append. That both moves in accordance, a faultless conjecture. Presumption, speculation. I thought I know a broken heart, but knowing isn't feeling; one none of those lavish poet ever came close in describing. Like a problematic anecdote, it expounds and presents. It becomes who you are; suddenly it's the most compelling slice of your life on display.
A supposition that divine projection, one with tad of consent because it is, however little, undeniably true. My broken heart self is the synthesis of wrecking emotion and self-defence substance in fixed proportions. This self-defence telling me that this too, shall pass, like any other bad days you had, only in different intensity. Those kind of thought kept me going, in hope that better days are coming. Midway, I found a strange discovery, that you couldn't just wait your feelings to get better; you have to strive for it. Happiness, projected. It was one ordinary, fateful afternoon; blurry, over-exposed memory flashing as if the world ends. Like those melodrama, I somehow from time to time be refrained from ongoing reality. Feelings do reshape. It will never be ready to be happy again, but you have to try. I, have to try. Maybe not as whole again, at least for now. Highly, unlikely, in reverse, maybe it will be better once again.
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