Love and grief

I had always wondered what it felt like to be admired.

To be the object of one’s longing.

To be the art and not the artist.

The written and not the writer.

The muse and not the maestro.

The wanted and not the wanter.

Desire was a beautiful thing to be felt, a cruel thing to be craved.

I had grown to long even the slightest sliver of recognition.

Maybe in the end all I wanted was love. To love and to be loved.

This yearning was my undoing, the search for something pure, true, burning adoration. The yearning that keeps my wandering heart searching for something more, something beautiful, something real.

Regardless of the circumstances, one thing was certain, two things were sure; i was searching for a passion worth pursuing, and I wouldn’t stop till I found it.

The hope i possessed was the kind that begged, begged to be seen, to be held, to be felt.

Despite the tragedy, I persevere. I still am, despite the longing, despite the yearning, despite the hoping.

For what am I made up of if not hope and tragedy? Tears and anger? Love and grief?