If I kept my old thoughts and beliefs on love, I would still be hopeless. I would still be able to romanticize every almost-lover and find a way to justify the moment of every event – in a way to make it sound beautiful. If I had kept my old self, and was asked if every love had been real – I’d find a way to explain how prominent and meaningful they each were, how they never collided or bled into the prior or the next.
I probably can’t speak the same language anymore – yet I can confidently say that I’ve learned from every friendship to relationship. And with every lesson came attached with only more logic and sense; a keen realization for reality – something I’ve always lacked: realism. Though, I guess that’s what constitutes a person to being a hopeless romantic. I’m half relieved to have lost it and half glad to have adapted, finally, to logical thinking and speaking. It definitely ebbs and flows, though. Sometimes I still hear her faultless wishing, but her indifference feels more solemn.