The world begins and ends with love. In a womb, the child begs to be loved, to be adored, and our ignorance of the importance of love comes in time. We are raised to be distant, we are pushed to do so because those that love us do not want us to be disappointed. They do not want to hear the weeping. Some grow cold, some lukewarm, and the others are perilously burning up inside. I do not know my category, but I do know that my distance can not be blamed entirely on others. I will grow old and either more loving or less. I do hope to be relentless, but who is there to be relentless to? I feel myself unable to open to others, I fear that I will be dishonest, because I have always felt that dishonesty is the safest playing field. On that dying day, I’ll look around and pray I see the one who understands me best. Where they are now, I am unsure, but I think they are looking for my deathbed too. How horribly morbid, but really it is all about containing the concept of love. I do believe in it, after a fashion. As our searching continues, the skies change their colors and the sun or the moon sheds a glow on newer faces, newer names, those variety of personalities, most of which I can not completely despise. The room is kept warm for me.

In two months time, I can save myself from seceding.