Why Life Is Just A Love Story | By Cleo Forstater [@cleoforstater]

I ripped open my heart when I loved my ex,

found an overflowing well of love inside my chest.

I loved fearlessly, courageously and without reservation.

I honour my beautiful heart for this, for knowing its purpose is to love

and for doing it so wonderfully.

It knew that its willingness to know love

was directly proportional to its willingness to know pain;

it can open the door but cannot choose who walks through.

Yet, my heart flung its doors open,

got completely naked,

and loved.

It experienced a love so life changing that I could never be the same.

Then, it experienced a pain so life changing that I could never be the same.

In that pain I got love-amnesia to cope;

forgot how deep the love was,

erased all memories

and thought that my love must just be flawed,

my heart must be faulty.

“The problem is I didn’t love me”,

I scolded myself,

“I loved away from myself and that’s not healthy”.

I felt ashamed that I felt such intense pain after a break up.

I felt like I was weak and pathetic really,

I judged myself; for having put so much of my happiness in someone else’s hands.

I believed the promises those hands had made,

to love me til my dying day.

I felt my world collapse around me.

I felt hurt for a long time that he didn’t seem to feel the same pain as I did,

but, then, I realised that each of us served a purpose in the others life,

to teach us whatever we were supposed to learn.

His lesson isn’t necessarily the same as mine,

and that’s perfectly fine.

It doesn’t invalidate either one.

And it is all love.

Now I know the depth of my pain

was a testament to the depth of my love,

and to experience that was a blessing.

I’m more grateful than anything for him now

because I am so in love with life and the person I am now,

and all my experiences brought me to this point.

I hold every intention to keep my promise to love him til his dying day and beyond.

My heart knows not of titles,

my soul knows not of distance.

Sometimes I forget about the well inside my chest,

and when I find it,

it overflows.

And I let it.

And I love it.

There’s no suffering and no story,

there is just the allowing of emotion to pass through me,

without shame or reservation.

The rivers that rise up for release aren’t wounds;

and they aren’t battle scars,

they are the victories of me learning to love ever more deeply.

To surrender more of myself to the love that’s already within me.

To embody the love that is the healing of all things.

I am learning to love him again,

to appreciate the wonderful and perfect being that he is,

without wanting or needing him to be anything or anywhere else..

and wishing him happiness..

and that is me learning to love me.

Loving without need,

without attachment.

Loving because love is my nature,

love is my nourishment,

love is my medicine.

I’m learning how okay it is to feel things..

How necessary

and amazing

and healing it is.

That there really doesn’t need to be shame

or embarrassment

or judgementor a story attached to it.

Let urself feel your shit.

If you’re feeling it,

then clearly

you aren’t supposed to be,

“over it by now”

because you are not,

“over it by now”

and that’s fine.

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