“She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.” — Margaret Atwood
At times, I don’t think a lull, a seepage of irreverent thoughts or a blow to my head could be, would be as detrimental as the idea of a future – without you. For the longest time, it seemed futile to even think about what if we did make it, you know? Right now, taking one day at a time seems tougher than trekking a mountain; and considering that I am the laziest and the slowest person on the planet that could very well imply the end of me.
I would like to think of myself as you think of me, “the girl who writes like it’s raining in the middle of May”. I want to be okay with each passing day which makes me forget how it feels to stand next to you, inhaling the faint deodorant on you which assures me I am home, where your hands and mine forever keep reaching out for each other.
Is love enough to battle wary? Is trust enough to ward off personal insecurities? Will our misunderstandings ever get the better of us?
I wish I wasn’t as sad as I am, now. I wish that it didn’t seem like a battle to make myself understood. It was alright that we mutually hurt each other, only if we could move past it.
Let’s not treat love like a competition but vouch only for ourselves. Can we retain even an inkling of admiration and not forget that words when not used well, shatters one’s sense of being?
Too many questions but I have just one answer. I love you, I know you do too. And I hope that’ll someday be enough.