Why it is so sick to love? Well why it is so sick to love
? Why white always mixes up with black and the gray unattractive reality turns out? Why there where happiness is always the place for tar, bitter and inappropriate …
When the disappointment comes? When everything bothers when you cease to notice white gleams through a black curtain? Always did not believe that the love has a term … and suddenly it so? Gradually pink glasses wear out and through them all our mistrust to the outside world filters, all our pains nakhlynyvat one minute and becomes precisely from the fact that even strongly wishing, you cannot forget any act - offense of another, once so hotly darling … And so there is a wish that on a pure cloth of life there were no dirty spots … And who will win? Who fights also all - time erases all not purity or who submissively waits so far from memory it will not cover it all …. Sometimes our fears play with us a mean joke … But how to find a side between fear and reality?
I have such feeling that I always fight, with someone, either with something, or with myself. Maybe about groans it looks as a habitual vicious circle … But I want will relax, leak, be forgotten though for a minute … Will learn to forgive to
is a gift … But whether there will be owners of this gift by a general laughing-stock and weaklings? Ah yes … Still I am afraid to be weak and this fear and does me that. I tighten the loop more tightly, without realizing that … It is too much reflections, it is too much labels “well“, “badly“, “treachery“, “lie“ … Everything gives in to an assessment. Good, naturally, too. And here inevitably there comes such moment when you reflect what labels it is more. Whether it is worth living further in such situation or it is necessary to change something. We are afraid of changes. We love stability. But in our world is a big luxury and here win the most flexible of us. They lives, more resistant to whims.
I am struck by such word as “humility“. Many consider that this line, undoubtedly, has to be inherent in women. I think, from - leyba we can watch so many pseudo-independent women who are not needing a male this. They resist to the whole world, proving that in vain they were called the weaker sex, and it is so much hatred, rage in their words, and behind them only pain and disappointments … Nevertheless, I do not perceive humility as the main female line. I want to believe in flatness and interaction. Therefore I cannot just reconcile to things which to me seem unfair. For example when you speak to the person about the pain, about the rejections of any situations, and all this is perceived as the nagging notation or written off for my bad mood. Not so everything is simple. One more my big fear - to stop loving the one who nearby … I know that the sensitive person that it is easy to offend me though my firm bravado can hide external manifestations of it and in appearance I “am just angry“ … And actually in soul not that cats are scraped, and really greedy tear off pieces from love … She fights, groans, does not want to leave, clings the sharp teeth in my flesh, but these cats (offenses, disappointments, jealousy, grief) persistent creations, sooner or later they try to obtain the. That is why it is so sick to love. When it comes, there is no baggage of a negative, all around in lacy warm colors. In his eyes a boundless pure feeling, he protects also it and you … So lovely … And you soar … Before the first quarrel. And who as endures this experience. Who safely steps through this barrier and pushes away all troubles back, splochayas it is even more, and who fights the head about it and tests still big pain.
And me it is sad … It is sad that I here torment myself involuntarily here with such barriers, I fight roofing felts the head, roofing felts heart about a barrier which should be bypassed. But here, on turn there is one more terrible guard under the name of “Fear to Be Deceived“ and will remind the 100-th time “Here I to you says what so will be!“. And I now in such pensive mood … The thought emerges that if deceives, then and let, I tried, I trusted, without making mistakes it is impossible to reach something. But how to catch up milestones of these cats and to force them to return all those pure, gentle memoirs which did not allow me to long earlier? How to keep feelings, despite these pulled-out gaps in soul? They hurry to be filled with quarrels, angry phrases, tears, pain. To forgive? Perhaps, but I will not forget. I will try to understand, listen, once again to tell about the pain, only without curtains, without attacks, without being afraid to seem weak and naive. Sometimes fetters and armor with which we surround the heart, being afraid that it will not bear numerous blows, contract too strongly, and then we become hostages of our fears. Away! Who is afraid, that does not try, who does not try, that stands still, and I go, slowly, stumbling, but I go!