I have enough trouble finding people that have that Spark, the whatever-it-is that I fall in love with. It's rare - it's really rare. To the point where I've met about a dozen people in my life . . . as I said. It's rare.
But it's worse than that. Because that isn't enough. They have to love me too, and being as optimistic as I possibly can, there have been maybe three of those at most.
But it's worse than that, even.
Because the one thing life has taught me is that love is rewarded by betrayal. That no matter how much someone says they like you, there's someone better . . . and they'll find them, and that's all there is. Suddenly you're not even in the picture anymore. You're the one who gets ignored and left behind, and the only thing you can do is move on and try not to let it hurt you too much.
I don't believe anymore. I don't believe in others, and I don't believe in myself. I don't even particularly like myself. Once I did . . . but he couldn't survive.
Someone browsed through my journal archives a while back, and wondered how it was I'd even survived. It's quite simple, you see, I didn't. I died for the first time about two years ago . . . I imagine it won't be more than another few months for the fifth time. And every time, I don't care as much. Every time I'm angrier, every time I hurt more and show it less . . . every time I die, I'm not as good when I come back.
And, hey. The first version of me wasn't good enough. How can the fifth possibly be?
I don't expect anyone to fall in love with me. Not anymore. Maybe I had a chance once . . . but now it's just down to survival. I do what I have to to survive, and once in a while it all falls apart, and so do I. And then I come back and try again.
This isn't what I wanted. But I'm still not going to give up.