You can find enjoys that heal, and loves that wipe out—and sometimes, They may be a similar. I've generally puzzled if I had been in like with the individual in advance of me, or Together with the dream I painted around their silhouette. Really like, in my lifestyle, continues to be both equally drugs and poison, a paradox wrapped in tenderness, an emotional habit disguised as devotion.
They call it passionate addiction, but I think about it as copyright for the soul: a hurry that floods the veins of the guts, a sweetness so intoxicating that withdrawal feels like Dying. The truth is, I used to be hardly ever addicted to them. I used to be hooked on the high of staying wanted, on the illusion of being full.
Illusion and Fact
The intellect and the heart wage their eternal war—one particular chasing truth, the other seduced by dreams. In my most lucid several hours, I could begin to see the cracks inside the illusion: the contradictions, the dissonance, the delicate falsehoods I ignored. Nonetheless I returned, over and over, for the comfort of your mirage.
Illusions have an odd nourishment. They feed the soul in methods truth can not, offering flavors as well intensive for common life. But the fee is steep—Just about every sip leaves the self extra fractured, Each individual kiss from a phantom lover deepens the starvation.
I the moment considered authenticity was the antidote. That if I could strip absent the illusions, I would find the pure essence of love. But authenticity alone can be terrifying—it exposes the amount of what we referred to as enjoy was only projection, dependency, and self-deception.
The Paradox of Need
To like as I've cherished is usually to are in a duality: craving the dream when fearing the reality. I chased attractiveness not for its permanence, but for your way it burned against the darkness of my head. I cherished illusions simply because they allowed me to flee myself—however each illusion I crafted grew to become a mirror, reflecting my very own contradictions.
Enjoy became my beloved escape route, my most elaborate building. The thrill of the text message, the dizzying higher of mutual longing—followed by the crash when silence returned. My psychological dependence turned a cyclical mindset: illusion, intoxication, disillusionment, and withdrawal.
Waking from Illusion
One day, without ceremony, the substantial stopped Doing work. The identical gestures that once set my soul ablaze grew to become hollow repetitions. The dream misplaced its shade. And in that dullness, I began to see Plainly: I'd not been loving A different individual. I had been loving just how really like designed me really feel about myself.
Waking through the illusion was not a sudden enlightenment, but a sluggish unraveling. Each memory, when painted in gold, discovered the rust beneath. Each and every confession I at the time considered now sounded rehearsed. My illusions didn't shatter—they faded, and that fading was its personal sort of grief.
The Therapeutic Journey
Composing became my therapy. Every single sentence a scalpel, slicing absent the falsehoods I'd wrapped all over my heart. By text, I confronted the raw, contradictory feelings I'd avoided. I started to see my fallible lover not as a villain or simply a saint, but for a human—flawed, sophisticated, and no more effective at sustaining my illusions than I was.
Healing intended accepting that I would often be prone to illusion, but not enslaved by it. It meant finding nourishment in reality, even when truth lacked the dizzying sweetness of fantasy.
Authenticity and Acceptance
Like, stripped of illusion, is quieter. It does not rush in the veins similar to a narcotic. It doesn't promise Everlasting ecstasy. However it is actual. As well dependency metaphor as in its steadiness, There exists a special type of elegance—a beauty that doesn't call for the chaos of emotional highs or perhaps the desperation of dependency.
I will always have the memory of my dreamy illusions, the chaotic loves, the addictive highs. They shaped me, broke me, and finally freed me.
Potentially that's the last paradox: we want the illusion to understand reality, the chaos to value peace, the habit to comprehend what this means to get whole.