Love, Letting Go

When the joy and sheer bliss that used to come about while partaking in a longtime passion slowly dissipate, how does an individual recapture the essence of what made it unique, special, and intrinsic?

It is like looking forward to going in the garage and rolling out a candy red bicycle with leather accents, complete with a gold horn and untarnished rust-free rims, that had been given to you years ago as a middle school graduation gift, only to discover that it has been stolen.

For years that life-changing object enabled you to be the envy of all the guys in the neighborhood, the Easy Rider-like stud capturing all the ladies’ eyes, stirring their insides and making them weak in the knees when you would wisp past them and briefly stop a few yards ahead to acknowledge their presence by slightly nodding at a quick tempo so as to not give them the idea that you are interested and sprung.

The power-inducing agent is gone, and you need to find it, for if you do not, everything you have grown accustomed to will turn into dust.

After days of canvassing the neighborhood, searching behind houses and cars, and prompting old ladies and volatile, impatient men to chase you because of trespassing on their grounds, you find the bike lying on its side between two rundown houses occupied by squatters.

You do not like what you see.

Its paint is chipped. Its seat is torn. Its horn, though letting out a faint squeak when you squeeze it, is basically dead. Its tires are flat. Its rims, which grabbed everyone’s attention, are bent, beaten, and crushed.

Bulging eyes cannot be peeled away from the horrifying sight that engulfs you.

Mom then walks over, wraps her right arm around your shoulder and attempts to console you by hesitantly saying, “Oh, dear, everything will be alright.”

No, it will not, and you know this all to well.

Although you have quickly grown to detest what your eyes have been subjected to for the past 15 minutes, you decide to walk toward the bike, rather than retreating farther away from it.

You pick it up.

Mom beeps the horn twice, and rolls the window down to tell you to lay the bike in the back of the SUV.

The unblemished pitch of its horn incites you to mumble, “I’m good,” as you would rather be alone.

That pristine image that everyone was either enamored with or jealous of is gone, and all that remains is a downtrodden semblance of what was.

It hardly moves as you roll it down the winding sidewalk, which seems longer and bleaker than it had appeared in the past.

With laser-like focus, your eyes gaze into blank space as you think about what has been taken away from you and how to get it back.

Though defeat emits from your soul, salvaging your love, trying to nurse it back to good health, is the only option, for not doing so will only usher forth a wormhole into further despair and anguish.

Weeks turn into months, and it begins to feel like a chore, one that you grow to hate because the energy that has been expended to revive an ill-stricken love just is not bringing about the results that you had hoped would come about.

Optimism begins to diminish, leaving you to wonder if moving on without her would be best.

But declaring this project of reparation over is not an option that you will be able to live with, for it is part of you, and you already feel dead with it still playing a major role in your life.

You begin to forget what is needed in order to reach equilibrium.

Visions of awesomeness blind you, bringing about an inability to remain focused and cognizant.

Months pass and true progress still feels far off, away in a distant land, and no GPS-enabled device can lead you to it.

The brain resorts to screenings of cinema that depict both a life without love and a life filled with happiness. Because of that, signals shrouded in rage and distress are sent throughout the nervous system.

Realizing that it has been awhile since you last tinkered with her, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about a life bankrupted.

And you resign yourself to the belief that things will never change.


The narrative above illustrates how I currently feel.

I have become a writer who is often unable to write, leaving me to feel somewhat dead.

Oftentimes I feel like I have forgotten things I have known my whole life. My authorial voice, to me, seems as if it has weakened. I overanalyze everything, from writing to speech. The delete key on my Macbook has become worn and sloped, because we are always in constant contact with one another.

Roughly two months away from graduating, I have no idea what will transpire in the future or, to be more specific, where I’m going.

And of course such unshakable sentiments have kicked me where it hurts and left me wallowing in a depressed, negative state.

Frequently, I express this to ones close to me, but it all builds up quite often to point where I feel as if I have accomplished very little by venting aloud my many frustrations.

I have to regain and fortify my confidence, for without it, who knows what will come about?

A life full of being pissed off and miserable, that is what.

I do not want to live that way.

I want to feel as though I control my life, travel to places I have long dreamed of visiting, meet individuals and share their unique stories offering a different perspective for readers worldwide.

In order to do so, however, I have to tattoo my insides and make permanent the belief that not only can I do it, but it is well within my reach.

I am not in search of wealth. I only wish to live free from debt and have the means to experience.

In order to retain what I love and press forward, I have to let go of what has been weighing me down, proving to be a major hindrance.

I have to forget and quit mulling over poisonous mental text.

Surrendering, although an option, does not sit well with me, for I would never be able to cope with what would come about.

I have got to revise and build upon what has been deconstructed and pillaged.

Now I wholeheartedly understand that it is a one-man job.

It starts and ends with me.


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