We’ve all waited for that one (and the only) thing really. It’s a special feeling and emotion we could fall back to. In essence, it is the only thing we could truly call ours. Sometimes this feeling is mutual. It’s one of those times when the notion of what could be “truly ours” means a lot more and is nicer simply because it’s shared. Time is an empty canvas. It’s these emotions that add the wonderful colors to the art we call experience. It’s our experience after all.

We’ve always seen it from afar. We only had to open ourselves to what was always ours. It’s hard to fully accept what might have been that special feeling. Perhaps it’s harder to fully realise that we’ve always had what we’ve wanted to feel and be but chose to ignore it because it’s easier. It’s easy to lie and it’s easier to lie to ourselves. But we never had to. There was never a reason to.

While the lies make it easy ignore what we’ve wanted to feel, truth nevertheless makes an appearance. It is never too late and that we’ll eventually learn about this special thing that was waiting to be called ours in every sense of the word.

Maybe I’d have known all about this. It’s funny how I didn’t without a notion of an ‘us’. I didn’t ask for this to be expressed and push me into a sense of vulnerability. A sense of vulnerability that I’m afraid of all by myself. It feels much lighter shared perhaps because it’s meant to be so. It’s as though this sense of vulnerability took me by my soul and sensibilities and led me to what was always mine. In some sense, this can’t be entirely mine. It’s shared. There’s a part of it that I know exists. But this exists far beyond my reach. It’s probably meant to be with another. It’ll be around though. This lovely thing, the only thing really.

This thing called love.

The only thing really.

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