Three Cheers for Shit that no Longer Matters!

This past year has been very busy, and the most eventful. Surprises came from all ends, some bad, but most good! Throughout it all, I’ve realized a few things about myself, that I now wish to write about, seeing as I’m failing to post regularly.

I no longer give two fucks about my weight. As I’m browsing through magazines, or web sites, I keep coming across the ‘How to survive the Holidays without gaining weight’ articles. They sort of anger me, and so I scroll past them. Here I am, now in my late twenties, giving less fucks about weight than I ever used to. Don’t get me wrong, if I felt that my weight, or habits were detrimental to my health, I’d care, but I actually don’t. And so, after a life-long battle of striving to achieve some kind of ‘perfect weight’ that I never achieved anyway, somewhere down the road, I gave up. And it isn’t the kind of ‘giving up’ that comes with remorse, or guilt. It is the best feeling ever. It is the feeling of acceptance. The clothes I buy are the size I am, not the size I wish to be, the food I eat, I enjoy every bit of it, be it chips, or kale. I don’t count calories, and I certainly don’t waste my energy on wishful thinking while reading diet blogs, when there are so many good FOOD blogs to be read, recipes to be tried, and restaurants to be visited! I always get a bit sad, when perfectly healthy looking people go on about how they feel uncomfortable in their own skin, and I know there is absolutely nothing I can do, or say that will change a thing in their head. It’s a type of acceptance that happens somewhat naturally, gradually, but also without concrete realization of how, when or why it occurred. And so, here is to my lack of a thigh gap, to my protruding cheeks, the roll on my stomach when I sit down, my Slavic nose, and the size of my breasts. Those things, that before I would have wanted to change, I have learned to not just accept, but also love about myself. This also applies to make-up, or wanting to look like someone else. I remember one day when this ‘epiphany’ came to me. Of course those types of epiphanies happen in forms of thoughts every day, but it’s so hard to embody, and truly process something like that in a way that it becomes your train of thought. I was sitting on the bus, about three years ago with my best friend. I’ve known her since we were eight, she started going on about her stomach, about how she needs to lose weight, etc etc. I sat, and listened. Of course, I sympathized, and in return, I started going over the things I would want to change about myself in my head, but then something really extraordinary happened. It’s as if my mind was exhausted of the never-ending stories it repeats to itself, and so it shouted ‘STOP. You will never be any younger, and your body will never be any firmer, than it is today.’ And that is exactly the rule I keep on living by. Sure that was three years ago, and that statement was true then, and it is still true now, and will still be true ten years from now, because at a given point in time, you will never be as young as you are that day. Besides, there are so many greater things to spend your time and energy on than bringing yourself down!

Who says what/What random acquaintances do with their lives. There is something incredibly demoralizing in one, indulging in gossip; and two, spending time going over what is said about you. I’ve been lucky these past years, I’ve surrounded myself with people who discuss greater things than he-said-she-said tales. They share stories, experiences, ideas, discuss philosophies, etc. Those are the kind of people I want to surround myself with, and the kind of dynamic I want to build in my friendships. Don’t get me wrong, it’s absolutely natural to be driven to gossip I believe, but when a friendship at its core becomes just that, gossip, then it’s lost its worth.

On that same note: How fun you are I do love fun people! But I most importantly love kind, caring, and intelligent people. I value sense of humour. But the fact that you’re up for anything after you down three shots of tequila is not impressive if your humour is snarky, and quite frankly, mean-spirited. And so people with whom I can only go out, are no longer people I have time to spare for at this point in life. I never felt going out to to be a very rewarding experience, unless it’s at a pub with good conversation, and people-watching, I really can’t be bothered for mindless drinking, or worse – clubbing to music that gives me a migraine for the rest of the weekend. Living abroad has taught me that as much as I love people, I also love interactions with quality over quantity. Those are the people that I have the time of my life with! And so, I’d rather stay in with a book, or a bad romcom on, over going to socialize for the sake of socializing.

How much coffee I drink. There was a time when I tried to limit my caffeine consumption, convincing myself that my anxiety was brought on by coffee jitters, and it most likely was. But just like with anything else, the mind can play a lot of tricks on us! And so, as soon as I stopped believing that my third cup of coffee would induce a panic attack, I started to enjoy that excess of caffeine my Doctor would probably recommend against. Everyone has their own poison!

I no longer care about your personal beliefs. Don’t get me wrong, I care to discuss them, I care to debate them, even, but I don’t care to convince you that mine are the way to go. In my early twenties, I would go Hitchens on anyone who had a personal god (I still won’t capitalize it though). In hindsight, that type of behavior was pompous, and quite frankly alienated the person, rather than making them understand my point of view (which in my head was/is fact). It is not a personal attack on me if someone finds vegetarianism silly, or believes in a deity, as long as it’s with respect, and with absolute peace. A good person is a good person, no matter their belief system. That said, I still wish the world was secular, and that intolerance wasn’t viewed as ‘cultural’, but as exactly what it is, absolute unjust intolerance.

My quirks. A human being is a constant work in progress, and as long as we realize that, we will never fail ourselves. That said, I am done with reading the ‘tricks for seducing the guy’ type of articles. I never really appreciated them anyway, but always indulged in it as a type of guilty pleasure. I realized that those things come with not only being yourself, but accidentally coming across a human being who will love and accept yourself as you are. After that, there are no games to be played, no tricks needed, you can just be, and work things out through your common, and most importantly, natural dynamic.

Self-centred people  I once dated someone so full of themselves, that the only issues/neurosis worthy of their thoughts were theirs. I’m lucky to have good friends, and so I never felt lonely, I did feel frustrated and needy however. It was a good lesson on patience on my part, but it was draining. And so, I decided ever since, that if you can’t have empathy for another human being, or simple interest in another human being, I’d rather spare myself of your narcissistic self-important energy. I realized that giving up on people like that doesn’t make me a bad person, nor does it make them bad people. Instead, it makes them people who have a lot of growth to do with their own ego and value system. And it makes me someone who has time and energy that I’d rather spare on people who are willing to give the same in return. And so if a friendship, or relationship is harder than it should be, and one-sided, it is probably best to learn to value yourself enough, and let go.

Bad haircuts I always cared about my hair, even when I didn’t appear to, I did. Having long, thick hair, I always hated hairdressers, as they never knew how to work with it. And so I avoid them. Two days ago however, I scheduled a last-minute appointment and chopped off 14 inches off my hair. I haven’t had short hair in AGES! I realized when I sat in that chair, that I felt no anxiety, or apprehension about it. Instead, I was excited. I wasn’t scared to ‘miss’ the hair, or regret doing it. Hair is dead protein anyway, and it grows back – it even grows after you’re dead! – I couldn’t resist inserting Regina Spektor in there) So why do I find it so valuable? I donated the 14 inches to the Cancer Society, which made me feel even more sure about my decision.

I can’t tell if this post will be read with a negative tone, I did not mean it to be, but it is what it is. Coffee time!

Found on

An ode to what once was and what will be

If all moments in life were treated as that, moments with a start and end date, we would probably seize them with full consciousness, we would clasp onto every bit of emotion, feeling, or thought a given situation inspires in us. We would see the world with wonder, and would rejoice in the goodness and the bad, because we would know they have an expiration date. We are often blind to the wonders that life has to offer, treating the human spectrum of emotions as a most mundane affair. It is only in retrospect that we can look back and see the purpose in the pain, the charisma in the hours spent feeling lost. And then there are days that come and go with stagnancy.

Wake up. Commute. Go to work.  Go home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

And then BAM. You open your eyes, hundreds of days later, to find yourself in a different space and time.  The scenery of the journey may have seemed abiding, but yet you went from point A to point B, without much realization in the process.  However, in hindsight, all feelings and thoughts make sense, and you realize they are the most precious experience. Of course, that only applies for some people.  There are others who do everything with intention.  They know what they want their path to be, and they get closer to point B with every day that goes by.

I am not one of those people.   I navigate through this world a bit blindly, with hedonism being the big picture.   The goals I set for myself are small.  A trip to plan, another place to have my heart, a book to read, a song to write.  I however don’t have a decade-long plan.  I’m not sure if it’s a ‘blessing’ or a ‘curse’, but there is something incredibly rewarding in allowing myself to derail.  It is infinite freedom. It makes the future exciting with possibilities, with every day a blank canvas with possibility of so many lives! And it makes the past beautiful abstract expressionism left for hours of interpretation and introspection.

About a feeling

You came to me  in apathy, a stranger, and you brought with you a multicoloured palette to paint this town a bit more bearable.  A lot more bearable, who am I kidding.  You came to me in great sadness.  My heart wasn’t fully mended yet,  I always took care of that on my own before, you see.  There you were before me, with such novel kindness in your every word and move.   I succumbed.

I had been mourning scenery, faces, bridges, and cities, far away from here.

You understood.

You long for those places too.  Your blue eyes glistened as you spoke about that little town in the North of England, and then of Valladolid.  You took me on a trip to parts of this world where I’ve never been before that rainy night in August.  I saw it all so vividly in my head, making up landmark arrangements and inventing the traits of the characters that were part of your stories.

You came to me when I felt like I had absolutely nothing to offer to another human being.  You see, I was bent, and emptied of all vulnerability I used to be capable of.  But you noticed that, and you waited patiently, without the pressure of time, without apprehension.

You came to me in a time when I thought stories like these only happened in novels filled with sentimentality.   You brought with you everything that the ones who have come before you didn’t have to give. Giving yourself selflessly.   It felt strange.  You triggered such rawness out of me, that I never knew I was capable of before you came.  The many states of me, that I used to be worried would never be known by people before you, just manifest themselves so easily.

And then there was ease.  There was ease in the nothingness and in the longing.  There was ease in the way I saw this place,  and all my struggles.  A lightness I haven’t felt around another human being in years, if ever.  A lightness that can only exist in the presence of everything a human being is:   his neurosis, psychosis, conquests, defeats, history, heartbreak, silliness, great ideas, idiocy.  His entire vulnerable form.

You made me conscious of the beauty that remains, even in rock bottom.

From the place you came from

Cars rushing past the house, which is not yours.  Traffic sounds, on an otherwise quiet centre town street.  You sit on someone else’s balcony, eyes on the view.  Buildings, so many buildings, probably built in the seventies.  Ugly, apartment complex buildings, nothing else.  A void settles in the midst of your ribcage.  Inhale, Exhale.  Air travels the tube, all the way through to your lungs, in a mechanically forced manner.  You feel it stalling, as you expand your abdomen to inhale deeper.  The weight of the breath traps in, the void fills, grows heavy.

I don’t want to be here.

10:40 on the clock, precisely 15:40 over there.  You think of the streets you’ve walked, a mere two weeks ago.  You think of the faces you saw, the excel spreadsheets you hated working on, the underground, the pubs, the nights out in Dalston, the parks you would go to soothe your busy mind, the meridian line, strolls through Brick Lane and that ethiopian vegan food stand, train commutes to the seaside, and even the 176.  You think of your flat and your housemate.  You think of that one evening in April when you both sat outside that old pub in Angel, staring at the street sign across from you, sharing your deepest thoughts and your respective neurosis with one another.  It was cold and rainy, but sitting outside that old pub in Angel, just felt like the most right thing to do.

You think of all the commutes to Euston, after work.  Ten minutes away from the station, there is a small Cyprian theatre, where a most inspirational 80 something year old man directs plays.   He rarely eats, sleeps, or drinks water, but you’ve never met anyone with more passion, drive and sense of absolute humanly possible internal freedom.  You remember all he months of intense rehearsal, and the liberation you felt during those two weeks of performing as a Dyonisian Initiate.   You then think of the panto you were part of, and all the silliness it came with it.  You think of all the amazing, talented, kind people you met, and remained friends with.   You wish them, and the city were polly-pocket sized, and that you could, wherever you find yourself, open it and indulge in all the goodness you found in those years spent in that place across the sea.

You think of Emma and the day you met her in that cat cafe.  It was two Octobers ago.  She wore her blue coat, you wore your multicoloured sweater, she complimented you on it.  She spoke about teaching, charity work, and other things.  You did not have a clue then what an integral role she came to play in your life.   It is funny like that, you never know where an afternoon latte in a cat cafe, or a walk across a bridge will take you.  For me, it took me all the way through some of the best years of my life, to a train commute to the airport, having a shoulder to cry on, and two solid hands to reassure me that everything will be okay.

You look at the clothes you’re wearing, and nothing remains of that place, except the trainers you bought in a shop in Camden, the first month you arrived.  The next morning, you ran across Waterloo Bridge, down to the Thames, running past the banks.  Those banks that carry the history of your thoughts.  Standing there, an evening in August, two years ago, looking at the view.  You felt so alone, remember?  You looked at the unfamiliar grand city before your eyes.  On one side, the parliament houses, the London eye and its blue lights; on the other the majestic sight of St Paul’s cathedral, the Gherkin and the Shard standing tall and proud.  Little did you know back then,  the memories to be on all those streets, by all those landmarks and sights.

A watched pot never boils

from archived files…

I took a walk in Hampstead Heath today amongst the bare trees and the occasional magpie.  The wind started to blow and it resurrected the leaves from the ground.  They started flowing, dancing before my eyes and for the first time in a long time, I was humbled by the scenery.  I sat on a bench and watched the spectacle, alone.  A few strangers passed by me, some were walking dogs, some were running, others were walking briskly, as if they had somewhere to be.

I sat and sat and sat for an hour or so, until the wind ceased.  I continued my way, without direction, unsure of where I was headed.  That is the great thing about Hampstead Heath, I don’t know it enough to know what is coming next.  I felt mentally exhausted, and emotionally jaded, but I knew it was a sorry state to be in, and so I tried very hard to get out of my head. I observed the brittle branches, I observed the pale gray skies, the ponds of water upon which ducks and rubbish were floating.   I think it was Bertrand Russell who wrote that introspection only leads to holding a personal diary and psychoanalysis.  Well, in my case, it is no longer introspection, as much as it is being completely, entirely, destructively self-involved.  My mind has been mostly blank lately, it frightens me.  I should probably take up solving riddles, completing the daily sudoku in the Evening Standard.  Yes, I will start doing that tomorrow.

Walking did not feel as therapeutic as it used to years ago.  I wish I could pretend it was the cold air that numbed me, but I am well aware that it would be lying to myself.  It was strange though, London city felt so far away.  Funny how something can be part of  and exclude that something at the same time.

I came upon dozens of dog walkers, their dogs had more personality and sass than themselves, I came upon a young guy balancing himself on a chord attached between two trees, I came upon a couple picnicking on a bench.  It made me want to get a dog, kiss that tree balancing boy and buy a cheap bottle of wine and ask you out on a picnic.

I then came to a vast hill, as vast as hills in a city can get, and there it was, the view of the entire London city presented itself in front of me.  I walked towards one of the unoccupied benches and sat, in the middle, facing the view.  London, from this distance looked soulless and empty.  The view omitted the beautiful bridges, the ever-flowing Thames, the liveliness that surrounds South Bank, the grand historical structures, the city parks, the millions of people, some with purpose, some without.  The view was grey,  two-dimensional, making it seem as if all buildings were glued to one another, yet I wished you had been there to watch it with me.  Would you even appreciate it, or would you demean it?  You would probably glance at it fast, point out where your house is, and in jitters tell me “Let’s go get beer now!”

A guy was sitting on the bench in front of me, with headphones on his ears.  Behind me, another guy was texting, or browsing the internet on his smartphone, who knows.  There we were, three complete strangers sharing the same view, a different moment.  I wondered about their lives and realities for at least a minute or two, but then my own problems started to rehearse in my brain again, like an automated message, that I could not even decipher because the voice was so robotic and the words were hastily mis-pronounced.

I gave you until midnight yesterday to reach out to me.  I have read years ago, somewhere, could be in a psychology textbook, or in Cosmopolitan, that I must give myself a time-limit to mourn.  It may be unfair to you, seeing as you are completely unaware of that time-limit, but I tried my best sending you cosmic vibrations.  I already practically lost my mind, so what else is there to lose by trying, right? Right…

On my way home from Hampstead, I stumbled upon George Orwell’s house!  I bet you have no clue who that is, you were never much of a great reader, or great mind in fact, but then again neither am I.  I think that’s why I liked you so much, from the instant I met you, you appeared as the perfect balance of stupidity and wit.  Everything came too easy, you listened to my theories as if I had something interesting to contribute by talking too much, and I quite enjoyed the slightly nasal sound your voice would produce and I enjoyed your convictions.  I enjoyed that you thought horoscopes were bullshit, but that there may be a god, I enjoyed the way you laughed at silly humour, yet I can’t recall the sound of your laugh anymore.  I liked that you could talk to me in an unapologetic and inconsiderate manner and that it would not make me feel uneasy or slightly insulted, that must have been a first, I’m quite the sensitive type.  Your brief presence in my life brought out this ease out of me, and I enjoyed that.  They do say that you fall harder for how a person makes you feel, than for their precise characteristics.  You did not make me feel special, you did not make me feel safe, yet I felt completely comfortable with how things were, and that right there, for an over-analytical person like me felt like the biggest accomplishment that I needed to hold on to.

And so I tried holding on to you.  I laughed at your jokes, I baked you chocolate chip cookies, I made you an origami horse – because you asked me to – I would answer the phone when  you would call, I maintained that safe distance so you keep allure of your freedom, and when I would see you, I’d hug you so hard, so you can feel something.  Truth be told, I did not even feel a like-love feeling, I just knew I had the potential to feel it one day.

I then rushed out of Hampstead, because my phone had no reception.  When I reached the Belsize Park area, I had no missed calls and no text messages, but a watched pot never boils.

You proved it to me that one night about a month ago.  I was out on the town with Stella.  We went to a new nightclub, I had no reception, and quite frankly did not care to know how your night was going. I met a guy, he looked like you, only younger, yet more mature.  His hair was sun-kissed and his eyes were blue.  I could always tell a person’s eye colour, even in the dark of a nightclub.   We danced, and we kissed.  He then took me by the hand and yelled out over the loud bass of the music: “I don’t want to fuck you, I want to eat your pussy.”  I nearly spat my gin out

“Excuse me?” I asked.

He then repeated, slowly, confirming I did not misunderstand, “I-want-to-eat-your-pussy.”

I started to laugh and then I said “But you don’t even know my name.”

“So?”, he said, with a blank expression on his face.

I knew I did not want anything to do with someone who did not care to know my name, but he amused me.

“You don’t have to reciprocate”, he announced.

I laughed even harder.

“Listen, I’ll come over to your place, I will pleasure you, and I will leave.  That is it” he persisted.

Agreeing crossed my mind, but I was not the slightly bit excited at the thought of having a stranger over.  I have done it before and nothing came out of it but a post-one-night stand shame and seasonal depression.

“Thank you but no thank you.”

He then went into how he doesn’t believe in reciprocity and how he finds it demeaning.  I did not quite understand his arguments, they seemed like drunk gibberish and empty words, but he kept on with his new age monologue.

My mind drifted towards you, being the only person I would want to see at the end of a night out. I left the blue-eyed boy and went to look for Stella.  Thinking she had already left the club, I got my coat and decided to walk home.  Upon exiting the club, I had two missed calls from you and three text messages, it read “We should meet up at the end of the night” , “I miss you” and a sad smilie face.

Those stupid emojis tend to mean so much in this day and age!

The last time I saw you, I felt like it was the last time I’d see you. We stood on the platform, you told me that I was the most interesting outcome of all and that you want to get to know all sides of me.  My train approached, you gave me a soft kiss and said goodbye, but before you could walk away, I embraced you once more and then walked to the car, sat inside, and watched you walk away with a strange pressure in my chest.

Now it’s half past three in the afternoon, and the lanterns are already starting to light up.  A child passing by waves at me, and I wave back.  I walk up the High Street, to my apartment, go straight into my room, sit on my bed and stare at nothing outside my window.

The stuff that remains

There was a river on a cold day in winter, ornamented by deserted banks, flowing on.  There was a glorious bridge from the 1800 on which we stood to watch the water, two quasi-strangers.  You were everything at once that day.  You spoke with eloquence about how you’re convinced you’ve once seen a ghost.  I laughed.  The rain kept on pouring.  Our feet and hair got wet.  We found a café.  You couldn’t eat that day, I think I made you nervous.  ‘If you could live in a parallel reality where everything is as real as it is here, and  everyone as you know them would exist, but things would be as you want them to, or this one which would you pick?’ You asked.  Without hesitation I told you I’d choose the alternate reality.  You made me feel nervous when you said that my friends and family would miss me here.  I felt selfish I didn’t think of that before.   I always felt a strange sense of novelty and familiarity in your calm nervousness.  Your presence was comforting.

There were dreams made out of stuff, albeit intangible.  They stayed in our heads most of the time, as to preserve them intact.  Untouched.  On some occasions however, such as during long hours of insomnia, mornings during which the harsh English sun would fill the room, or Friday evenings on which you or I would get off that train which would lead us to one another, those dreams would escape our lips. We would tarnish them with pretence, vulgar words,  names of places, ifs, wants and will be’s.  You’d speak, I’d listen. Then you would listen and I’d speak.  They were dreams of foreign places, towns where neither of us had stepped foot in before.  There were seas and country sides, there were roadtrips, my hometown, and a little house by the South coast of France.  You will get your license and we will buy a cheap car and then we will set off and drive.   We will drive through all of Europe, to nowhere in particular. We will eat ripe fruit on the way, and will get crappy jobs to sustain us.  Then we will fly away, and find a small apartment in the centre of the city.   I will be at yoga while you will write.  We will drive to see koalas, and roam from coffee shop to coffee shop in search of that perfect flat white, or soy latte.  We will swim and get tans.  We will eat so much ripe fruit…

There was touch, filled with a sense of purpose and determination.  Hands brushing through tangled hair; fingers entwining; bodies longing to merge into one another; eyes on eyes, fixated, as if to try to catch a glimpse of that thing they call ‘soul’.  There was a need, a need that was not rationalised, nor thought through, a very urging need we absolutely had to succumb to.

There were streets and roads others have walked, in towns where we too left our mark.  Cathedral ceilings, old coasters in local bars, empty bottles of cider and a made up boy and girl, talking in seven different accents.  They always made us laugh so loud, I cannot even remember the names we gave them now.  Then there were forests and fields with grass that went up to our knees.  By the lake, two men were fishing, you said we needed to be quiet or we would scare the fish away.  I didn’t want him to catch any fish, and so I spoke loudly, as it comforted me knowing no fish will die before my eyes that day.  There were hills in the smallest of towns and a cemetery where Sylvia’s body lies.  There was pouring rain and a deserted pub where I told you I thought your personality type was ‘INFJ’ and urged you to do the myers-briggs test to see.  I guessed it right.  I wasn’t sure if it was a lucky coincidence, a sense of intuition I did not know I had, or that indiscernible thing that made me feel like I knew your essence.

There were songs exchanged, books to read, and those we said we’d write.  I have changed the plot of mine several times since then, and you, you may never start yours.  There were jobs to do, and applications to be sent on days when we would part.  All the mornings spent sleeping in and nights spent laying awake, we would tell stories until sleep came.  There was a shared birthday we never celebrated, and the day you took the train so we could celebrate our 10,000 days of life.  There were candles in the room, and wrapping paper with tiny hearts, a notebook in which you wrote, an envelope of stuff.  And all the laughs, and silences and fears of everything we could be, an ego to preserve in a body shaped container, putting everything on pause.

There was a river on a cold day in winter, ornamented by deserted banks, flowing on.

You are not broken, you’re loving

The other day, I was early for a meeting, and so while trying to kill time,  I caught myself judging myself.  ‘Why did you let this go on for so long?’ ‘Why do you respond in this way and not that way?’ ‘Why are you thinking these things or replaying scenarios?’ etc etc.  It’s less than empathetic, and full of judgement and quite frankly, spite.  It always strikes me by surprise when I catch myself talking to myself that way, because I am not a spiteful person and I am not an impatient person with other people’s feelings and complexities, but for some reason I inflict this mental abuse onto myself.  As soon as I caught myself doing it that day, another part of me jumped out and almost screamed on the top of my lungs (internally of course) ‘Stop viewing yourself as pathetic, you just really really care(d) about this person and about this situation!’ It is amusing how complex we all are, there I was, me and my multiple entities having a debate about what acceptable thoughts and feelings are and aren’t, all that right before a very important meeting.  My internal dialogues are the strongest in matters of love.  The best way I can sum up my stance about it is as follows:

I am scared shitless of love and of loving, yet I cannot help but love.

The older I get, the bigger the fear gets, the more the complexities of uncertainty overwhelm me, but they never phase me enough to hold me back from feeling the AWESOME spectrum of feelings we are capable of.  They have not once deterred my capacity to love and to give and share that love.  And yes, sure that love is sometimes unrequited, and sometimes it extends itself past the due date the other person has attributed to it, and sometimes the other person doesn’t recognise, or worse, cares for what it is you’re handing them because of their own limitations.  None of those circumstances matter as they should not demean your own capability to love and feel these incredible feelings.  There is no foolishness in your thoughts, no matter how many times you have recycled the same stories in your head over and over again.  Sure there comes a point when you need to direct that love towards yourself, and at that point you will most likely start moving on, but let it be a natural process.  Don’t force it by putting your thoughts and emotions down.  It is okay for you to cry, it is okay for you to suffer, it is okay to feel so low, it will pass, and one day you will look back at this time and think to yourself how amplified all of your experiences were, because these grand emotions replaced that numbness brought by routine and by taking things in life for granted.  Nothing is wrong with you, you are just full of feelings and that is a beautiful trait to have in a world where we’re all too distracted to feel.  ‘But you’re just being foolish now, the other person has moved on.‘  Well ego my friend, it isn’t about them this time, is it?  It is about yourself.  It is about doing things and feeling things at your own pace, in your own time, it is about honouring yourself and your experience.  The heartbreak is not theirs, it is yours and yours alone, you own it, and you are entitled to every single cryfest you need to have.

One of my friends, who’s wise way above her years, wrote me a beautiful message yesterday.  I feel like it needs to be quoted somewhere.  She wrote:

‘The way I see it is that it shows that the love that you had for him is not something he can take away.  Because he simply acted as a catalyst for you to feel those feelings – to feel the depth you’re capable of.  You have such an open heart, with so much to give.  And being with him has given you an idea of the capacity you have.  It is the difference between looking at yourself as a person who has loved, and seeing yourself as someone who can love – who loves.  And let’s face it, he’s actually not the best catalyst.  Imagine what you could feel for someone who felt the same for you, or rather, who felt the same and was strong enough to fight for it.’