I'm the kind of person you could fall in love with the idea of: the cluelessly whimsical and hopelessly cliché. The perfect companion to a whirlwind romance that was clearly doomed from the very start. After all, I was never the kind to go beyond infatuation. But, at least that infatuation reaches down to the deepest roots and anchors itself in place. At least it grows to its full extent and even more so in the form of unhealthy obsession—almost like a virus, almost worse than a disease.
Isn't that why they call it lovesick?
I've never been very good at keeping my walls stable enough to shut people out completely. I build them up with sticks in place of bricks so that a single stone—or in this case, a charming smile or pretty eyes— could easily demolish it and wedge itself in my heart and mind. It's ridiculous how much, and simultaneously, how little I try. Don't ever let yourself get stuck in the dilemma of deciding whether the chance of connecting with someone is worth the risk that they'll leave because even the slightest sense of hesitation will be enough of a chink in your armour to entirely break through it with ease. Maybe it's the lonely part of me longing for company— in contradiction to my defensive stance—that keeps leaving the door open just a crack, ready to swing open and welcome the next one. Maybe it's the cautious part of me that keeps the lights inside dimmed, shoving them back towards the exit; always hoping they'll push back harder, always hoping they'll fight to stay.
Doesn't everybody?
It's a cruel test to pit every newcomer against the resentment left behind by a past they never knew in order to prove their resilience and unconditional care for me. It's not fair that I pin every hope and every fear to those who will never fully understand every bit of kneading previously done to shape me into who I am today. It's not fair that I can't help constantly comparing them to someone they've never even met. It's an impossibly high standard that just perpetuates the cycle of loving and leaving in a broken record repeating over and over and over. Letting the past rule your present is exactly how you end up chasing people away. It's self-destruction.
As a result, I keep finding myself tightrope walking the line between heartbreaker and heartbroken. Sooner or later I seem to end up in the latter position— all too familiar with the bitter aftertaste on my tongue, which I bite to stop myself vomiting up too much honesty.
But in my music? I'm allowed to do the exact opposite. Every song is a piece of myself locked away in a melody. Every lyric is a confession so dangerously authentic. It's almost like a diary. It's almost recklessness within reason.
So here I am, sharing a peek inside my mind. Pouring my heart out onto an operation table to be dissected by whoever cares to listen. Take me how you'd like— even if I look like an idiot...