Lost connection due to awkward translation; I can’t, won’t bridge the connection.

What if I get hurt?
What if they’re not enough, not who I want?
What if I hurt them beyond repair?

These questions circle my mind like restless ghosts, haunting the fringes of my thoughts. No, I can afford the answers to the question—I am, unfortunately, one quarter short of the courage required to face the reality that lies within.

Instead, I fall in love with the question. The what-ifs of it all.

For what-ifs can’t hurt me. They only leave me feeling empty and beyond repair, loveless and out of love, drifting through a sea of uncertainties. But that’s better than getting the answers to these questions—answers that might upset the balance of my soul, a delicate equilibrium I fear to disrupt.

I have become comfortable with the emptiness, a paradox of solitude that wraps around me like a worn blanket.

A black hole—empty yet paradoxically full of possibilities.

The weight of potential sits heavily on my chest. I wonder endlessly about the paths not taken, the voices not heard, and the connections that might have flourished had I the bravery to reach out.

Yet, with each passing thought, the risk becomes clearer.

It is to be continued.

And I’m getting tired of this cycle of hesitation and despair, waiting for clarity where there seems to be none.

—Nov 24, 2024