20 Facts About T.Rowe!

Confessions Of A Serial Lover

“Where there is love, there is life.”

                             -Mahatma Gandhi

I remember the first time I saw you. You were so beautiful. I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to call you beautiful, but the words handsome or good looking seem to only capture your physical traits. What caught my attention was your soul. I felt at that very moment, that I could see right through you. For a second, the world went silent, and all I could hear were our two heartbeats, in sync. Most people only dream of feeling that type of connection with someone, but me, I’m no stranger to these extraordinary emotions.  To me, this was an ordinary routine. I’d felt these emotions numerous times. I’ve been in love…a lot.  My practice of using the term “love” loosely has brought me much condemnation.  What can I say; I’m a hopeless romantic, with much emphasis on the hopeless part.  I love people and often times they don’t even know it.

Is there something wrong with a girl who’s been in love multiple times? Always infatuated with the idea of new emotions with new people? What cure is there for a girl who constantly suffers from a broken heart when love doesn’t last? What is to be done with a girl forever sick with love? What do you call her? I’ve foolishly bragged that I’ve never had a broken bone in my life. What I wouldn’t give to trade in a broken heart for a broken bone. I can put a cast on a broken bone, go to therapy to make it stronger, but a broken heart heals in its own time. There is no science or medicine for this kind of ailment. Maybe I need an intervention, rehabilitation, or some sort of distraction to deliver me from my sickness. Or maybe I’m not sick at all; perhaps it’s the rest of the world that is crazy. Maybe I’ll give myself the title of Dr. and hand out my own amateur diagnosis’s to those who have never felt what I feel.   

Being crowned a “hopeless romantic” isn’t the most eminent title I’ve worn, but I can’t pretend these bouts of sickness didn’t benefit my life in some shape form or fashion.  I can’t pretend that YOU, my most current interest don’t benefit my life. While I’ve been busy loving you, you’ve become my silent encourager; you make me want to try new things. You’ve watched me suffer and endure all types of hell, and you didn’t even know it. But you were the reason I stayed sane. You are my muse. My passions change as our relationship changes.  At times when I can’t get you off my mind; I write and write for days on end. Late nights in my bed, I just write until my hands are numb. Sometimes you make me an angry writer, other times, you make me a sultry writer, and lately, you’ve made me an honest writer.  You’ve made me an honest person.

 I’ve got to take advantage of all the inspiration you give to me, because I’m afraid I don’t know when you’ll be just a memory and I’ll be busy loving someone new. Trying to live in the moment is difficult when I’ve already had a premonition of our ultimate demise.  Even still, I pray that this time is the last time. I want to be in love with you, and only you. I want to break this curse.

You’ve got me feeling like it’s alright to live in a world full of oxymoron’s because I am now a firm believer in this fictional reality I’ve created for myself. I’m absolutely unsure how I’m going to keep your attention, or how you’ll keep mine, but I’ll remain anxiously patient in the meantime. We’ll figure it out.  I’m almost always plotting ways to run into you, just so I can see your smile. My emotions take over and I become a blameless culprit, following the orders my heart gives me and disregarding all other contribution. Yea, I’ll admit, I’m a fine mess, and I am not perfect but I’m worth it. I just wish you’d see my value. Until then I’ll remain a cheerful pessimist, hoping for the best but preparing my heart for the worst. That’s how my love works. And you, you’re so unaware.

 I’ve often considered making room for you in not only my heart, but in my soul. The very dwelling place of my savior was opened up to you, my inspiration, and my uninformed lover. Let’s face it; I’m terrible at not loving people. Even when loving brings me heartache, I’ll never abandon the sensation. I thrive off of it. Label me an emotional junkie, a love masochist, a collector of emotional attachments, a benefactor of intense affection. I’ll never relinquish the idea of love, even when I’m picking up the pieces of a broken heart once again. I’ll try my best to mend love’s wounds with my tears because expertise has proven that the potion my eyes create has nothing short of a healing power.  

I’m a serial lover, and I’m okay with it. One day I’ll get help..