Save the anguish of losing a loved one to death, to love another with your heart and soul who will never return your love is, without a doubt, the worst pain. It is worse because they took themselves from you, whereas the dead had no choice in the matter. Given these facts, one can rightly say that loving someone who is unattainable will cut one's heart the quickest. When your true love forgets you, preferring the company of others, there is no greater betrayal, no deeper cut. If you persist in loving them you become a wound which weeps silently, blood mixed with tears trickling down your sullen, pallid face, for you are chasing shadows. You are devoid of meaning, for love gives us purpose. Your minutes go to waste as you lay crying for them while they gallivant with fair-weather friends and insincere lovers. This sort of love gives more than it takes, losing itself in the memory of the other, a forever kind of pain. If you say to the heartbroken, "Why mourn? Move on," they will obediently nod but think, "If I could have moved on, I would have." You, like I, struggle like some wild thing caught in a steel trap and we slowly bleed. With no way to extricate myself, I accepted my fate. The victim of cruelty so ominous that it overshadowed all of my life. I became conditioned not to admit what was painfully obvious, so I smiled and politely denied the depth of torture I lived in.
There are no answers as to why we try so desperately, giving every last ounce as they take their beautiful person and throw it away. There are no reasons explaining the mystery of why one bleeds and cries while the other cannot shed a tear. And all the while what my beloved was searching for was waiting inside of me, waiting to be discovered. Seldom to never did I realize what I was, nor did he see what he held in his cold and unfeeling hands. For all he had was hands to do with, to grope with, and not feelings that would allow him to love another in the unselfish way he was being loved. He did not understand that language. He was only acquainted with the courser movements of love. And there are no answers as to why he could not give, could not cherish, could not treasure.
You, wondering and puzzling over questions even your beloved cannot answer, these constant inquiries weigh you down until you can hardly move, ultimately forcing you to hate the one you really love. You wish your feelings of malice against them would survive, but they never do. You wish you had never met, chastising yourself for nothing you started; you simply walked into a mess of a person and decided you could help them. But they had abandoned themselves, turned from themselves, so convinced of their unworthiness, certain of their unloveliness. But something in you could not leave them alone and so you stayed. To this day you stand alone in the room of their heart, an empty, old place, hoping they will return to themselves. Can you see how futile loving someone who refuses to mend is? Why hang on to futility? It is like not being able to drop a stick that your own arm beats you with. Time passes, and still your heart holds on. Holds on for what? They were never yours in the first place. Seldom did they give all of themselves to you. On occasion they adored you, and their love was so superior to all other loves that it created a desire in you to never be apart. The drive in you to know them wholly is what repelled them, which only confounded you. A vicious circle was established of chasing and of running, because you liked the effort of proving your love, and they felt powerful when spurning you. In this scenario they always won, and you always lost. Is it remarkable that the unattainable chase wore you down?
My dear heart, yours is a royal line of love, a highly idealized form of love that mortals cannot sustain. You give what you one day hope to get but never do. You give truth, transparency, and you give without measure, forgetting your needs. My dear one, let them go, free to roam. In truth, you haven't the power to make them stay. The tighter you cling, the farther they will roam. They do not recognize love; it is a foreign object to them. It is a circle while they search for a square. They chase no meaning, they long for no sincerity, and they spurn the truth. They are ever thinking another grass is greener and longing to lay upon it while you hold in intrepid hands jewels, but they are content with fool's gold. What you offer is unbelievably precious, tender, wonderful. But they don't recognize it and call it something else altogether. You must not cry for them when they should be crying for you.
I cannot say how or by what means you will remedy this imbalance, only that you must try to rid yourself of any failure complex. How could you have failed to love them when you are still loving them? You hold out a treasure and they act as if you are worthless. Can you see what nonsense it is to blame yourself when you gave all of yourself, and silently still offer it? My poor, unfortunate comrades in love. Even if your heart refuses to turn away, at least know with conviction that you did not break them, they were already broken. Your sin was in wishing to save them. You saw in them something nobody else could see: their innocence, fragility, and their ruined childhood. And ever after you could not leave them alone. And where has it led you? To the door of your own emotional destruction. To a deep crater filled with regret. To a loneliness that is unfathomed. It led you to question your sanity and goodness because they questioned it. Immobilized, you stopped walking the path of love for it had turned out the lights. Standing still in the darkness, not able to trudge another step, you sat, because to take another step in that dangerous jungle of love might have lured you over a precipice. In a profound darkness you held yourself as you had learned to do, though you detested it. And here you are on the same impossible pass wondering when the light will return to your eyes? Listen closely, for I shall say it only once: their unavailability is their wound to heal, not yours. Do not mistake a wounded other for yourself. You are overqualified for the job, not insufficient. You had nothing to do with the wounds they received. They were hunted and struck down years ago.
Seek to soothe your weary heart. See in yourself what few have taken the time to see: a compassion for another so deep and true that it knows no limits or bounds. A love which stretches on for eternity, pure as white silk. Even a humor which surpasses all and which still lives in your belly. See these precious, tender things and know that all of nature loves you: the sun and moon delight to shine for you, the breeze blows for you. Know that it is time to pick up your bags and walk the only direction anyone can walk. Don't wait for another to walk beside you, as yours is a silent and solitary soliloquy into the sunset.
With Love,
Frida
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