In love, you are born a masochist

We love to put salt on our wounds when we should be bandaging them and giving them time to heal. We scratch the epidermis of the soul every night with repeated memories, with the memory of perfume. We have a fatal dexterity to deepen our mental pit into which we fall especially at night. If we experience a kiss, we have so much power to enhance feelings that we transform it overnight into a love story, often tragic, although in its essence, it was, I repeat, just a kiss. Human imagination is a gift with infinite possibilities, but it is also the monster that at night feeds feelings and experiences that do not exist in the light of day.

We no longer know or maybe we never knew how to live simply, linearly, to take events and people as they are, without asking for more or less, without innovating and reinventing what happened to us in life through imagination. We always live on a stony, serpentine road, where we go up and down most of the time because of ourselves, and because we have placed the expectations we claim from life on the top of the mountain, we are very distressed when we reach down the road where disappointments await us. Although there are thoughts, and about the people who make us sad, who miss us, and whom we miss, we cannot give them up. We like to wallow in our drama, to stab ourselves with a knife through the heart from time to time because that's how we feel we live. We all want happiness with the person we love, but for many people, it is well hidden, we can only be sad until we find it. How else could we be?

I tried one evening to force myself to stop thinking about certain things that I ruminate in my head every day and honestly, I realized that I don't want to stop thinking about them, that it would be my life empty without these memories or hypothetical situations that I build in my mind. Probably, the memory of a person is so ingrained in our subconscious that over time it has made its home in our thoughts and now it doesn't want to leave or maybe sometimes all you have left of a person is the memory a memory. Thousands of times we imagine a detailed meeting with him/her in which we wear our favorite dress or shirt, in which we are surrounded by people who pay attention to us, and we, proud and naive, pretend that we did not notice her/his presence in the same room. If you examine yourself more carefully, you realize that the age of your image does not exceed 6 years. In it you find only pride, stinginess, fear of love, the desire to take revenge on the other, to always win. How is it that we don't imagine that we have the power to look for the person we love, to say their name in the crowd, to tell them what we feel, and to open our souls to them?!

If we stopped imagining love, we would probably have time to live it. We are creators of moments in the realm of the hypothetical, but we don't know how to bring them to life in the realm of the concrete. And if we had the opportunity and the will to live everything we imagined, I don't think one life would be enough. And yet I believe that hope is what feeds the imagination and no matter how harmful the two are, they are vital to man.