Life hurts.
This unbending social addendum we are all subject to after high school life takes its heavy toll, and every so slowly. Like an monstrous slime on your skin, this slow process of aging into indifference begins on your exterior, slowly sinking in. People you knew, people who once wouldn't think twice about sharing a milkshake or swapping movies with, suddenly look upon you and...see....nothing. Are you hideously disfigured? Can you no longer be recognized? I myself have fallen victim to this horrendous mishap, and have tried every rational deduction.
"They have obviously made a mistake, they mistook me for someone else."
This isn't the case my friends, the sad fact is that it's quite the opposite. In all actuality, for most people it's a pre-emptive strike on an awkward situation. They mistook you for you, and rather than waste precious time constructing a basic and infantile and uninterested cordiality, they just stare straight through you, praying that you do not notice that they have just discarded you, tossed you out with the stray gaggle of passing thoughts that stay no longer than an instant in the thinking brain. And people think this is okay, that this is normal.
It is incredible how many bridges between personalities are in only need of minor repair before they become fully functional. But not many people ever discover this, because as soon as you graduate high school they send you sailing down your own bridged river, handing you a torch and saying "congratulations, good luck at college."
And you hold that torch high,that torch of individuality, of determination, of free agency, you show it off to all those who can see--sailing, and burning those bridges you pass underneath. Sailing, and burning, and sailing, and burning; until you reach college, the vast ocean of tertiary learning. Only then, as you begin to float out to sea, with no other land in sight, do you look back and hesitate, questioning yourself. But what do you see? Burnt wood and charcoal, following the drift of your boat...
Yet indifference gives little a little consolation in reward for your bold move. When navigation has quit you, and you can no longer scratch your head in wonder for fear of losing your hair, fate tosses you an anchor.
Most anchors are completely unforseen people from a life past, almost as if the fates fancy this juvenile humor. Perhaps these anchors are an old friend from high school that wasn't necessarily considered a friend, but lucky you, because this old pal is now the only pal you've got at Big old College. And as you step back and look at the situation, you speak to yourself, stating in amused confusion "I would never have been best buds with this person, but I can't remember why I wasn't..."
Their are select anchors that few pack onto their boats, and they keep them close and cared for at all times, for they are driven by the whip of infatuation to do so. These anchors are precious, golden anchors, and after a time, it is not infatuation that forces the sailor to maintain this type of anchor, rather his own adoring love for the machinery. Sadly as it may seem, these special "anchors," lovers past and present, who have enjoyed in the experience of stumbling through love's first forest of trial and joy together are often the weakest of anchors, and can snap as easily as a rude curse slips off the tongue. Gold is a soft metal.
For love is tender, and so very much like a forest. And for those of you who truly have loved and tried running through an actual forest when holding their lover's hand can agree. There are many trials, almost every tree's sole purpose is separating you from your loved one. As toddlers in love, most high schoolers do nothing, save weave between trees, gripping hands tight, spouting strategems for reuniting in case a particularly rough branch severs their grasp.
This is what the torch is for.
Once you've crossed this new ocean and left you're burnt bridges behind and reached a new land, you set to action. As your anchors lowers into the water for you, securing your stay, you walk up to the new and wooded and, and with a--great heave--hurl your torch into its midst. For this is what you will choose eventually, this is what you'll set your mind at, you'll be determined to do this. Because once you burn down every crooked tree in your path, there will be nothing there to part your hand from her's.
Love heals.
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