Love.

          It was Sunday, ten in the morning. In a few days, the bittersweet reality will slap me hard in the face, even though I am still grieving over my wasted holiday and that I couldn't seem to actually have the time to "live". I should do my assignments, but I just found this interesting video on TikTok. There's this place next to a little drive in Ireland, where you can hold and pet some baby lambs. But the second my eyes sees the adorable, fluffy baby lambs, there's this strange, raging feeling in me. And I guess it's enough to make my cry because I did. I sob for minutes after that because of some baby lambs.

          “Why did you cry?” I ask myself, “why would you suddenly weep when there's nothing going on except that you just saw some extra-cute baby lambs and that you really wish that you could go there and pet the baby lambs?” I tried to slowly figure out what those brutal, aggressive, invisible movements in me were.

"Don't you think it's amazing how multifaceted love is, that it could make you laugh in pure joy but could also drown you in the infamous sea of grief?"

          But it didn't take me a long time. I immediately recognized that. It's love. Yes, it's love. Don't you think it's amazing how multifaceted love is, that it could make you laugh in pure joy but could also drown you in the infamous sea of grief? I was crying and I know I need to stop. But how do I stop it? How can I defend myself when I don't even know what's attacking me with its sharp daggers and swords? As I gather my thoughts, suddenly it all makes sense. I finally noticed the elephant in the room, as if there's suddenly a breeze that clears up my head.

          I have so much love in me. So much that it hurts, so much that it starts to overflow my tiny, shattered heart. So much that they're desperately trying to get out of my tired heart through the cracks and the bullet holes. My heart is no longer liveable for such innocent creatures like love. And no, I didn't see the adorable baby lambs as adorable baby lambs, I saw them as buckets, to pour all my love into it. I am dying with my rotten heart here, with my love trying their best to get out of me, but it could never escape my tall titanium walls and my tough guards. 

"My love, they're broken, just like the heart that produces it."

          And trust me, I've been trying my whole life to give my own love to me, but I can't love myself without hurting me. My love, they're broken, just like the heart that produces it. And while writing this, I also figured out why I could never give my love to someone or something. I could, but no one and nothing would like to receive a broken love, right? So maybe it's just the way it is. My love always comes with hurt because it's broken and I can't do anything about it except to let it rot together with my heart.

          All my life, I thought that having a best friend, having someone that could be a bucket where I could pour all my love into, would solve all of my problems. But turns out it's not. And all my life, I've been writing stories and building characters because the characters are again, just buckets to pour my love into. But turns out it's not, they're just words that I made up in my mind before writing it on my phone. So if you're asking “how can I be so full of hunger of love when I have love itself overflowing out of my heart?”, maybe the answer is, I can't even give it to me. They're born to die.

          But maybe that's just how I was designed, right? Maybe that's just how I was built. I was built in a so-called "privileged" environment so I could make invisible battles and genocides in my head and feel hopeless because I can't do anything about it. In the end, I'm just a stuck-up, ruined, stupid poet who writes stupid poems, and a wasted, lonely kid who cries secretly and will never be enough for anyone. The fact that I immediately recognized that it was love proves how familiar I am with the infamous, multifaceted feeling. Love.