I confess that love plays a limited role in the life of a melancholy individual. What I feel is not the feeling itself, but rather its shadow; muted and faded. In this way, sanity prevails over mania. As it must.
When there is love, it is different. It is in these moments where emotion overcomes thought. Where the butterfly in my chest beats his wings, and I cannot find the words to tell you that I love you. Maybe not before, and maybe not after, but in this moment I love you.
There is no greater guilt than to feel loved by another. To feel as though they are in love with the mask, and not the thing that lives underneath. It is the ultimate betrayal.
One’s thoughts and intentions can never erase one’s actions. I feel the grave calling to me. But I am not ready to love her yet. The butterfly beats his wings within me, and leads me forward to other mistakes.