I am at peace with myself. I have no illusions about what has come to pass, and no qualms with what I am doing. Many would say that I am foolish, but who is to understand the shape of a heart that refuses to be smashed? Paradoxically, unfathomably, it continues to beat, sustained by an unequal mixture of willpower, hope and memories, rising and ebbing with the flow of each day and with each tiny morsel that arrives, unceremoniously and callously delivered to one’s door. Lesser mortals would play a part in such a charade, or if so embattled, would have faded and passed away, proud in defeat but in smithereens.
I perservere. I endure alone, because I will not sucuumb to the same mistake, for love is between two, not more, and most certainly not for the common horde to judge or influence. A pure love sits calmly in a maelstrom of uncertainty and impending doom, but gazes upon its destruction calmly, stoic, and finds its only salvation in its very implacable, indomitable nature. For what was misunderstood was my nature; in my darkest days, bereft of love and affection, I turned inward, and never buckled. I walk the straight path, and will prevail.
This heart is mine to give.