The farther I distanced myself from everything, the closer I felt to my true self. I replaced the things I missed with countless illusions that would never come to fruition. They filled the void in a heart that found itself with available spaces. I paused for a moment to ponder why reality now seems grey when I used to infuse it with over a hundred existences, all bearing your name. The tormenting notion that there may not exist a reality in which I feel completely hung in the air. I'd then convince myself to press forward, awaiting the perfect twilight, only to find myself feeling futile and lost in thoughts that travel even faster than I can keep pace.
I wished I could possess the virtue of certainty, to travel a bit further into the movie of life and see if, in this story, I'd finally find the love of my life by my side. And in doing so, I'd discover that the broken piece in the machinery of my happiness is none other than myself. I'd go back through my stories, seeking to uncover the barren expanse that separates me from the women I came to love, only to realize that I break in tranquillity, smiling and dancing. When it seems I'm at the peak of my happiness, I crumble completely in the most absolute silence, all the while capable of expressing "I love you" with unreserved honesty.
I'd realize, as I recollect, that while I'm in one place, my mind is exploring another story. Life has taught me that eternal love is never truly forever. If I persist in forcing my happiness, the inevitable sadness becomes even more severe. I've forgotten how to enjoy simple things without overanalyzing their purpose. I'm determined to find colours in the lights and shadows to justify who put the period at the end of my stories. My balance now is to discover a bit of joy in sadness, and vice versa. To then know whom to blame when I ask myself if it's my destiny to be miserable. I come to the unsettling conclusion that I mustn't make the same mistake as always: loving completely, because I'm not sure how many more times I can bear to shatter.
Ultimately, I find that it's easier to pretend than to let it all go. I become the finest actor in the novel of your life. I smile and dance with a soul utterly shattered, gradually realizing that I've spent so much time pretending to be happy that I've forgotten what it truly means. I deliver rehearsed glances and speak the words I know will cause the least harm. I navigate reality with a thousand fantasies, hoping for another period, one that might not even signify the end.