I used to love every movie where a man showed he could not live without her. I loved every man who loved endlessly. I loved every man whose intellect surpassed his anger, men who could write a sonata, feel it deeply, and work the next day. They were men who loved not for the sake of love, but for the sake of her. I could not imagine being her, but I could imagine her existence. In my own foolish view of love, I would have sacrificed every part of myself. I would have given every fiber of my being, bending to fit a puzzle I lacked the comprehension to solve.
Countless times, I felt the flow of possibility, fear gripping each moment. Dreams would terrorize me, transforming me into beasts soaked in terror. I never knew who I had to be; I never understood who I had to become. My own self was lost in time, lost to experiences, and lost to uncontrollable traumas. How easy it is to want to fall in love, yet harder to dive. Dreams became realities, mechanisms of my own personality devolving into defense. Unslayable beasts, a shameful entity rushing to hide itself before it is seen. I fear not the time at hand, but the person I am. I do not allow possibilities to develop; hope is cruel, and love is lost.
I chose cruelty over vulnerability. I inflicted pain, received it, and jaded my own love. I believed not in fairytales, but in grim realities. In the movies, when he shows his love for her, does she bite the hand that offers? In her repentance, her quiet sorrow, does she then offer her soul to him?
Is the beast against love, or against herself?