And for most of my life, I had been trying to understand what love is, to try to “finitize” in such a way where I know, where I can finally walk on its sacred ground to get to you. I cour book after book reading between the lines, understanding the conflicts, and relishing in the happy endings. I read not only for the pleasure but to try to understand the language, to finally find the ending that I deserve, in some way, somehow.
It had been a good run for me and despite all the work we all had to do, you made it more bearable. You made everything seem like we were lost in a bubble, that somehow words were lost when you looked at me, and time wasn’t measured in minutes, but in moments. But like all events, they disappear. And as much as I try to hold on, eventually it will have to fade like it was made to.
This is the part where I say goodbye. In a span of time, we only spoke once and that is one moment you cannot take away from me, and eve if I do let you and any form of feeling go, know that you will always be the work of art. You are the work of art that is loved by the world, the work of art that remains whole in himself and yet becomes another entirely when the time calls. But you play a part that sadly won’t have me in that story, and so I have to walk out, walk off that stage, beyond the glare of the spotlight that you so love.
This is the part where it all stops. This is the part where I move on, and you forget me even more. But know this, I’m still trying to figure out what the whole phenomenon is about. I’m still trying to know how to get there and whether or not the words of you return to me in one way or another, give me this to solve the puzzle. I am writing this down to acknowledge our finitude, that I have written everything down to show you that this is it.
This is the part where our moments then cease to exist (all except one), as it should have been way back when.