Bent

I do not think I will ever love again. I do not feel I have that bone left. I have come to the realization that I do not allow anyone to ever become that close. No. I will not allow myself to get that close. For me falling in love is like climbing a mountain. Once I have almost reached the top and half winded, I fall down the hill, not in love. I become overwhelmed with the what-ifs of the person to love me back. Am I a coward? No. I just have not reached the top of the mountain. Maybe I have not built the endurance for it yet, or perhaps I did reach the top once upon a time. Or maybe I climbed so high that the fall was deathly. I am not sure. I cannot run from my fears, regardless of their nature. I must face them and accept the outcome. Cows climb mountains in a slow, diagonal manner, leaving zig-zag patterns. And here I thought cows were stupid. I think I will take my time, as the cows do, and follow the patterns. The top cannot be that bad if they are wisely climbing to the top. Cows like mud. And if it rains, there could be puddles on the hill. Then not only will I get my feet wet, but muddy too. This will make it all worth the climb.