There’s a reason that I hate romances. They always remind of
the things that I never had. Love, such an insignificantly small, four lettered
word; yet all the people seemed to be so obsessed over it. Frankly I don’t get
it. I don’t get any of it. May be it’s just me, and my weird self.
I've been involved with women, some casual, and some I thought
were serious. But I suppose I never really loved them. I thought I was, and at
times I forced myself to feel that way. I've said the same lines to every
single girl. They keep asking me why them? What made them so special to me? And
why do I love them? I just merely told them what they wanted to hear. Does that
make me a liar? I suppose so. Does that make me heinous? I don’t know, maybe it
does. I've been living in pretense all my life. I've been pretending so much
that I’m confused what I really am. I've been lying all my life, and I've lost
the truth somewhere along the road.
The truth is that I've always kept my feelings in check.
Truth is that I've kept my emotions shut. I was eleven when my dad died, and I
didn't even know that he was until I reached home to find him in a coffin. Most
would've cried, most would've broken down, most would've acted differently than
the way I did. I just kept staring at his body, not sure what I should feel or
how I should feel. People around were giving me weird looks. Their faces were
worried, and their eyes asked “what’s wrong with that kid?” So I learned from
my mistakes. When it was my grandmother’s turn to go to the other side, I just
followed the lead of my relatives. They looked sad, I looked sad. They started
crying, and so did I. even though I wasn't really sad.
I've been called a jerk, a dick, a moron, a loser; none of
which I’m denying. I may be all of those, and probably more. I know inside,
that I’ve earned all of them. The facts that even the relationships that I
claimed serious, not lasting for a considerable amount of time, made me realize
that I truly deserve all of them. May be it is because that inside I’m still a
little child. I want toys that I don’t have, and when I finally get them I just
get tired of them, and start looking for a new toy to play with. Or maybe it is
just simply because I’m afraid of commitments.
I am damaged, I know, and probably beyond anyone’s help.
I am man with little regrets in my life. I neither regret
nor resent any encounter I had with anyone in my life. So why am I writing
this? I myself don’t know the reason. May be I feel guilty for all the lies
I've said, and all that I made others believe, or maybe I just felt like
getting this off of my chest. I did it all to spare myself of loneliness, and
to get myself distracted from my life itself. I guess I’m a little bit more
selfish than I thought.
