The last believer

I’m not sure who I’m writing for anymore.

Maybe for the one who still believes..

There was once a world where romance lived.

Its existence blossomed only under the eyes of those who slept in the land of ideas and fantasies.

The further you were from the coldness of reality the closer you were to falling in love.

They say those days were ruled by different gods than those we worship today.

The gods of old gave us depth and gravitas beyond our wildest dreams, all we had to do was believe in them.

Time, did what time does best—it passed.

With every passing tick of our primordial clock humanity advanced beyond the need for belief.

Belief was replaced by certainty.

Mystery by logic. Romance by convenience.

Reason had become far more powerful than any god we used to pray to.

We no longer believe.

Love, they say now, is an illusion.

We have deduced that much.

——

I call myself a writer but please, let’s all be honest. I write about as much as a fat girl who says she lives an active lifestyle sweats at the gym, not often.

I’m a mean person who wants to be nice.

A judgemental prick. I want my thoughts not to count and hope to God that whoever is watching sees how hard I’m trying to do better.

My mother was mean. Monkey see monkey do, right?

I am bitter, but not because I am hopeless.

I am bitter precisely because I hope, and feel the blood seeping from my heart as a consequence of my naivety.

I am a forlorn lover who still believes loving someone is enough to keep them.

I still believe that love can save the world. I still believe that we can build new world through old dreams of finding divinity in one another’s eyes. I still believe the lies she told me before she left me. I still believe there is hope for us when she lies next to me.

—-

Maybe I’m still writing for the ones who still believe