the game

The poems and movies tell you that it’ll all just click and fall into place as soon as you feel those butterflies.  Your best friend uncontrollably crying in your arms after another boy breaks her heart tells you otherwise.  It tells you that this game hurts, that there is no way to play without taking damage.  People will say and do nice things in the spur of the moment, little knowing how long it will haunt the person on the receiving end.  And yes, nice things can haunt you.  They torture you in those quiet moments before you fall asleep.  It gets worse because there are no answers to the countless questions you formulate in the darkness.  You can yearn for those moments but they are long gone. You can’t have them back. 

Don’t try to replicate them.  It won’t work.  Don’t let your imagination build new ones.  That will do nothing but lay the brick foundation of your new internal prison. 

Just get through it with the faith that the click is still to come.