Love is supposed to be gentle and kind, but is it really? It does not come with instructions or a filter that makes it easier to swallow. Love exposes us, lays us bare, and often shames us mercilessly. We can pretend to control it, to manage it, to dress it up with sweet words and forced smiles, but the truth is harder to hide. Love lives in our thoughts. It presses against the walls of our hearts, demanding to be felt, even when we fight against it. And the more we resist, the louder it seems to echo inside us.
We often convince ourselves that moving on is simple. We
tell ourselves time heals, that new beginnings erase old endings, and that we
are strong enough to outgrow what once consumed us. But is this true, or is it
only what we tell ourselves so we can keep functioning? Moving on sometimes
feels less like healing and more like survival. We pile our emotions one on top
of the other, hoping fresh experiences will bury the past. A new friendship, a
new love, a new routine. Yet the silence always catches us. In the quiet,
memories resurface. They linger like shadows, shimmering at the edges of
thought, reminding us of what we have tried so hard to forget.
Maybe the truth is that we never fully move on. Maybe love
is not meant to leave us. It leaves scars, deep and invisible, but always
present. Scars that whisper of who we were when we gave ourselves away, when we
dared to feel. We may call it hate, or we may call it indifference, but often
these are only masks we wear to cover the ache. Hate is not the opposite of
love. Sometimes it is just love’s residue, hardened and twisted, but still
tethered to what once was.
This truth does not only belong to the realm of romance. It
finds its way into the passions we pursue in life, art, work, dreams, and the
things that once set our souls on fire. We begin with conviction, convinced we
have found our calling, and we dive in wholeheartedly. But over time, the flame
changes. What once felt like joy begins to feel heavy. The love we had for a
craft, a dream, or even a career can shift into fatigue or even bitterness. And
we wonder, was it ever love at all? Or was it a desire dressed as passion,
destined to fade once lived in reality?
Perhaps love and passion share this one cruel truth: they
are rarely permanent. They evolve, they transform, and sometimes they fade.
When passion withers, we often resent it. It feels like a betrayal, as though
we were abandoned by something we once trusted. Just like with lost love, we
may disguise that grief as hate. It is easier to call it bitterness than to
admit we still care. It is easier to shut the door than to admit part of us
still longs for the fire.
But maybe that lingering ache is not a curse. Maybe it is a
reminder that we once lived with depth, that we once cared enough to give
ourselves fully. Whether it is for a person, an art form, a career, or a dream,
the scar that love and passion leave is proof of life. Proof that we were not
numb, that we were willing to risk heartbreak in the hope of joy.
So how do we live with this? Perhaps the point is not to
escape the wound or silence the echo. Perhaps the point is to accept that love
and passion will always carry weight. They are not meant to be tidy or easy.
They are meant to move us, to shape us, to scar us. And in those scars lie the
stories of our memories.
Love and passion are blessings and burdens, flames of fire
turned to ashes. They do not always stay, but they always leave their mark. And
in the silence between what was and what is, we learn to carry both the beauty
and the ache. We learn that the scar itself is a kind of love, not for what we
lost, but for the proof that we once dared to feel.
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