Hypocrite

I say that I love writing.

But I rarely ever do. I say that I love reading, and running, and dancing. But I rarely do. So if I forget to prioritize the things I love, I don’t wonder why I lose so many people. Today, however, I got myself back. Now, this isn’t a Russian-writer sort of avoided loss. I didn’t lose myself. I just found that which I had to reach for: the spark. That’s my favourite aim. It’s the immense blend of accumulated fire that works beyond emotion. It is a body of light that you transform into. It’s a costume that we don’t fit into until the perfect conversation begins with a double espresso in one hand and a hand that won’t stop moving on the other, due to the hesitation in your heart. It will appear while walking home and your chest feels light or when you feel productive by the action you voluntarily initiated. And I found it again.

I say I love newspapers.

But I forget to buy them when I step foot in a country whose tongue I can respond to. I say I love those whose next goodbye has been an aim I have been scoring for years. I do love these things. Wholeheartedly. I suppose I stayed within friendships and relationships for far too long. Long enough for nothing to be left worth reminiscing about. Long enough for it to be exhausted. Long enough for it to be dull. Long enough for it to be a pattern of wasted time.

I suppose I was afraid of the day that the things I loved would become something I would be accustomed to.  I suppose I was scared that I would get bored of them. And I suppose that is why I left before the love I felt became as plain as the words a writer re-writes at the desk  he has been thinking of organising for years.

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