You can find loves that heal, and loves that destroy—and often, They are really the same. I have often puzzled if I was in appreciate with the person before me, or Using the dream I painted about their silhouette. Love, in my lifetime, has been both equally drugs and poison, a paradox wrapped in tenderness, an psychological addiction disguised as devotion.
They simply call it passionate addiction, but I think of it as copyright for your soul: a rush that floods the veins of the center, a sweetness so intoxicating that withdrawal looks like death. The reality is, I was never ever addicted to them. I was hooked on the high of remaining wished, to your illusion of staying entire.
Illusion and Truth
The intellect and the heart wage their Everlasting war—one chasing reality, another seduced by desires. In my most lucid hrs, I could begin to see the cracks in the illusion: the contradictions, the dissonance, the subtle falsehoods I disregarded. Nonetheless I returned, again and again, on the consolation of your mirage.
Illusions have a wierd nourishment. They feed the soul in means fact simply cannot, supplying flavors as well extreme for common daily life. But the expense is steep—Every sip leaves the self a lot more fractured, Just about every kiss from a phantom lover deepens the hunger.
I at the time thought authenticity was the antidote. That if I could strip away the illusions, I'd find the pure essence of affection. But authenticity by itself could be terrifying—it exposes the amount of of what we identified as like was only projection, dependency, and self-deception.
The Paradox of Wish
To love as I've liked will be to are now living in a duality: craving the dream while fearing the truth. I chased elegance not for its permanence, but for the way it burned against the darkness of my intellect. I cherished illusions given that they allowed me to flee myself—but each and every illusion I built turned a mirror, reflecting my own contradictions.
Like grew to become my favorite escape route, my most elaborate development. The thrill of a textual content information, the dizzying superior of mutual longing—followed by the crash when silence returned. My emotional dependence turned a cyclical mentality: illusion, intoxication, disillusionment, and withdrawal.
Waking from Illusion
Someday, without the need of ceremony, the higher stopped Functioning. The same gestures that after established my soul ablaze grew to become hollow repetitions. The desire missing its color. As well as in that dullness, I started to see Evidently: I'd not been loving A different human being. I were loving just emotional highs how really like created me truly feel about myself.
Waking with the illusion wasn't a unexpected enlightenment, but a slow unraveling. Each individual memory, when painted in gold, disclosed the rust beneath. Every single confession I after thought now sounded rehearsed. My illusions did not shatter—they pale, and that fading was its possess sort of grief.
The Healing Journey
Composing grew to become my therapy. Each and every sentence a scalpel, cutting absent the falsehoods I had wrapped around my heart. As a result of words and phrases, I confronted the raw, contradictory feelings I'd prevented. I started to see my fallible lover not being a villain or a saint, but to be a human—flawed, sophisticated, and no additional capable of sustaining my illusions than I used to be.
Therapeutic intended accepting that I would constantly be at risk of illusion, but now not enslaved by it. It intended acquiring nourishment Actually, even if fact lacked the dizzying sweetness of fantasy.
Authenticity and Acceptance
Enjoy, stripped of illusion, is quieter. It does not rush through the veins similar to a narcotic. It doesn't assure Everlasting ecstasy. But it is true. As well as in its steadiness, There's a special style of magnificence—a magnificence that does not have to have the chaos of emotional highs or the desperation of dependency.
I'll constantly carry the memory of my dreamy illusions, the chaotic loves, the addictive highs. They formed me, broke me, and eventually freed me.
Perhaps that is the closing paradox: we need the illusion to understand fact, the chaos to benefit peace, the habit to understand what it means to become whole.