Home has evolved to be the one place I've lost complete familiarity with. The idea and ideal perception of home has thus been tainted to my perfect concept of failed marriages. It is an ugly recognition of love's flawless ugliness. What greater example than one of your very own parents' marriage. My pittance of solace is their silence after a mouth-off. Their marriage has conditioned me to believe that faith never brought love to a higher level of sacrifice.

The uncanny comparison of their committal vows is one to cool air brushing against the sensing skin of your nose breathing in like steams of hot lessons, leaving you largely breathless and possibly suffocating. The only relative solution to this is indefinitely to take in more air, denying the possibility that denial of its burning effects may scald God's given ability to smell or detect variations of temperatures again. But God consistently forsakes people in the nick of time, when troubles and woes stir a formidable combustion of chaos, and it's not His fault but neither of that is the point.

Love was supposed to be breathtakingly mutual and wondrously immaculate. I'm shamelessly in love with a man and I want to make him my life long's better of worse, in sickness and in health, but I'm afraid of the loving and having to love unconditionally because I never want to live in the shoes of my mother, what more relive the history of their marriage's shadows. I'm terrified to realize that perhaps nothing in this world could satiate my opinionated individualism that has, since then and of now, grown sturdy from a seedling as I was, well nothing except my boyfriend changing all that. Okay I'm scared gutless at the mention of the latter.

Taking this to a random scale, do you know it's easier to die for someone than to painfully love unrequited? Dying takes a while, loving takes a fucking long while, on the very basis that life ends and love doesn't.