Forever January

How different you look when my heart is no longer blanketed in hope, the fog of idealistic notions has cleared away from my dreaming head. I find myself reflecting on the ability of my heart to overlook your flaws, to ignore the things that make us so obviously wrong for one another, all because I had hope.

I’m uncertain if you could love me. You can’t appreciate the sort of person I am (the kind that makes special trips through the rain to bring you medicine when you’re sick simply because they care), you mock my gentle, sensitive nature. You say you’re playing, that it’s all a sign of affection, of flirtation. But you’re only fooling yourself — I know better. You hate it when I sing, think it’s strange when I stare off while daydreaming, can’t admire my love of languages and the ease in which I pick them up. You mocked from day one all the little things that make me, me.

Still, I don’t know which I prefer: the days my heart was shrouded in hope or the days following when you tore that shroud to pieces? Should I yearn for the halcyon days or be content with the stark knowledge that comes after the downfall?

How long can a heart live without the idealism of the dreamer, without its shroud of hope?