Love is an illness to a woman with ambition

বিজ্ঞাপন

I don’t want to choose someone and rebuild my life so I could add his name on it. i can’t…

Love enters like a fever no thermometer can measure, a virus that spreads through ambition before you even know it.

I have always been so indecisive my whole life. Options fly over my head and I’d be losing my sanity choosing one over them.

But if there’s one thing I’m sure of… I’d always choose myself over love that I’m not sure would last long enough. I have learned to treat myself first, to measure my pulse before risking it on another, to check my vitals before letting someone near my heart.

I am bitter, I hate men, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know how to love.

Because I do, and I once did, but I don’t know if I will ever love someone enough to stay and choose them. My love has always been a wildfire beautiful, destructive, and impossible to contain.

I am selfish, so ambitious, I want to hold the world and put it all under me.

I want to reach the sky and not just fly in it but build a castle up there. I want to swim the deepest part of the ocean and not just explore it but permanently leave a mark. I want to go around the world and not just see it but experience all its sides.

And honestly, I don’t think I can do that while loving someone. While having someone…

Because no matter what I’d do, I’d try to lessen my pace so he could catch up. I’d swim less so he could breathe, I’d move slower so that he could still stay on my side.

And I don’t want that. I will not slow my circulation or adjust my lungs for a love that could strangle me in the end.

I don’t want to rewrite my whole life just for a fleeting heartbeat. I don’t want to choose someone and rebuild my life so I could add his name on it.

I will not perform surgery on my own soul for a love that might rot before it blooms.

It’s easier for me to erase all the good memories of him than erase the good possibilities my life could have if only I chose to let go of the chain of love. It’s easier for me to savour the heartache than to savour the regrets of not reaching my full potential.

I would rather nurse a scar than bleed out on someone else’s bedside.

Love is love, we won’t live without it, I may cover each letter of love with all the pain it causes, but it is still love.

And no matter how much I’d have, no matter how far I’d reach, no matter how much I’d change, one day I’d still look for it.

One day I’d crave it, one day can be one days, but that desire would disappear once I realize how much I’d lost if I gave in.

And one of those one days is now. I’d love to take that risk now, I love the idea of us happening in this lifetime.

But I know better. I know once I finish this piece I have gathered myself on how to lose the idea of us, because I am just in my first chapters, I still have so much to write, endless papers are waiting for my ink to mark them, and if loving you would slow that down, then I guess love is indeed an illness.

Why haven’t I thought of that? The fast heartbeat, those movies call it romance, but what if it’s a warning, a drumbeat hammering against my ribs until my chest caves in, until my heart bursts?

Those slow-mos that novels try to make majestic, but what if they are prisons? What if they are temporal distortions, moments stretched too long, trapping me in the gravity of your existence while the rest of my life drifts away unnoticed?

Those things they call butterflies in the stomach, but maybe they are not wings of delight but claws of unrest, scratching me in the insides, waiting to remind me that even desire can be a wound, and even love can bleed.

Maybe all the signs we glorify are just symptoms of collapse, the body warning us before the heart fails.

Love is an illness.

I could be locked in a psychiatric ward, smiling through delirium because the thought of you sets my blood on fire.

I could lie in a hospital bed, chest split open, veins screaming, lungs inflamed, my heart pounding shards of pain so sharp it could tear me from the inside out, stress-induced cardiomyopathy, caused by loving too much.

I could be buried beneath the earth, cold and silent, for giving all the love I had and receiving none, systemic shutdown due to unreciprocated affection.

Love is not gentle. It devours. It fractures minds. It drags you screaming into places you never meant to go. It leaves traces in the marrow, it infects your bones, and yet… we run toward it anyway, knowing it could end us.

And so those possibilities, or evidences I can call, would be enough reason to close this case.

Love can be the best part of my life or the worst… or the end of it.

And if you’re the one who’d bring that into my life, I won’t lose my sanity trying to choose over that option because I’d cut you off in the first place.

Love is an illness, and you’re the carrier, and I won’t have enough scrub to hug and have contact with you while being safe.

So, while I still have my mask on, I’d go.

I will isolate my heart, seal my pulse away.

So, I could survive the epidemic of loving you

Source: Medium/Vina amoris࿐

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