𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽, 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗅. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗁𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌, 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝖼𝗒𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖺𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖳𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 and too 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁, 𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗐 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈.

𝖠𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗐𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗋𝗒. 𝖨𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗐𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖶𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖶𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗎𝗉, 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿𝖿, 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖶𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝗌𝗈 𝗐𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗄𝖾. 𝖶𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖶𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖶𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾.

𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗈𝗋-𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗎𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗓𝖾, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝗉𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗏𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒. 𝖶𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖶𝖾’𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾’𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝗎𝗇-𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗌. 𝖠𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗌, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝗈𝖻. 𝖠 𝗃𝗈𝖻 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌. 𝖳𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽𝖻𝗒𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖳𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐. 𝖳𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖳𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍. 𝖳𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋. 𝖳𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝖳𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝖳𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇. 𝖳𝗈 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖻 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗌, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗃𝗈𝖻.

𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅𝗍𝗒. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍-𝗂𝖿’𝗌. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝖺𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗉. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍. 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗒, 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗒𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖨. 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖸𝗈𝗎.

𝖯𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈. 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍-𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗌. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗒𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋. 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾.

𝖳𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

𝗪𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲, 𝗔𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗩𝗟

Dear Charlize,

AFRIKAANS IS A DYING LANGUAGE? YOU SPELLED TRIBE WRONG

44 Afrikaans speaking South Africans, you say? Afrikaans speaking South Africans aren’t ignorant, stupid or allowing our language to die. What we are is a nation with a great love for our Afrikaans language, still raising our children to speak Afrikaans at home and as their first language at school, and they in turn, raise their children to embrace and carry forward our language, culture, heritage and values.

What is dying, and what isn’t very helpful is a tribe rich in language and culture, murdered in our homes, on our highways, at gas stations, in parks, and just around every corner and turn. What isn’t helpful is that we as a minority are being persecuted, discriminated against, and hated.

The Afrikaans tribe in South Africa could never have predicted the slow progression of our eradication that was implemented right under our noses in the early 90’s titled ANC Circular 213-6. We, you included, were so seduced by Nelson Mandela and his promises of freedom, equality and a rainbow nation that we failed to see the disaster that began threatening our very existence over a period of 28+ years. We were intrigued by the newly released Nelson Mandela who swore that there would be no more fighting and no vengeance by whatever the sins of our forefathers were. There would be no more hatred.

Yet here we are. 2022. The tribe, not the language, is facing extinction. Our tribe is dying. We are persecuted. Murdered. We are excluded from the job market, schools, universities, health care and sports only to name but a few. We are hated. Loathed. Targeted. Blamed. Branded thieves and second-class humans. We are being held responsible for things that are claimed to have happened but have never been proved. We are resented for the implementation of apartheid by the British – yet, abolished by the Afrikaans tribe. We are threatened and we wait for these threats to be carried out.

We wait. Our weapons meant to defend ourselves, have been taken away from us. We are a nation disarmed. Yet, the very weapons confiscated from us, are used in the murders of not only our farmers, but also in home invasions in our suburbs. We wait. Our homes are infiltrated by attackers seeking to eradicate our very existence. We wait. Our police or military can’t and won’t protect us. They withdraw from riots and protests; they are afraid of the brutality of the perpetrators which, as with our farm murders and home invasions, includes members of law enforcement. We wait. No other country offers ALL minority citizens of South Africa a safe place. We wait.

Our president is silent, yet – he excuses the hatred spewed by the majority black South Africans against the minority South Africans. He lies about land grabs, expropriation without compensation, and the murders to the rest of the world. Not once has he spoken out against all the anti-white laws crippling all South Africans. Not once has he condemned the cruel and barbaric aggression towards the minority South Africans. Not once has he condemned the hatred and incitement of murder through so-called struggle songs. Not once has he posed as president of South Africa but rather, as president of the ANC and enforces the ANC law and at the same time, condoning the actions and incitements by the EFF and the BFLF.

Our dying tribe is having our taxes, our mines, our municipalities, our schools, our law enforcement, our military, our hospitals, our minerals and all that was once supreme in this country, stolen by people calling for our slaughter. These are the people killing the old, raping our babies, torturing our women and children while cutting away the eyelids of our men so that they can watch unbearable cruelty unfold before them before ultimately, killing them. These are the people that have infested South Africa while attempting to destroy our language, our heritage, our culture, and all that once made South Africa great.

Our history no longer matters and is stripped from our schools and libraries, where generations from now will never know the true events of our country. The wars we once fought in Afrikaans for the freedom of our people will mean nothing – as though it never happened. Our lives don’t matter and that of our families’, don’t count.

We face daily protests, rapes, murders, torturing and beatings. We are no longer able to provide for our families and so many have found themselves in patched-together squatter camps. Education systems have failed. Health care has failed. Freedom is lost. Food is unaffordable. Citizens are confined to the four walls of their homes. We are hijacked on our highways and roads. Our teachers are assaulted by the youngest of students. The old and fragile are mercilessly assaulted and our babies raped.

All of us affected by the fact that we are being forced out of our country, unable to secure employment by the broad-based black economic empowerment laws, our restrictions in sport, universities, public service, and expropriation without compensation of property, not just farms, want to make it clear that it’s not our language dying, but our tribe.

To date, we are suffering brutal deaths, and our elderly, children, women, and men are mercilessly tortured before killed. We are faced with hate speech where our slaughter is being openly called for, yet our president and government refuses to address any of these issues. We rely on the law to uphold the South African law, instead, the ANC terrorist law prevails.

You spelled tribe wrong.

With love,
No. 44

I met someone on a day much like today. She wasn’t kind, and she wasn’t someone I wanted to let in. Something about her was off, threatening and heartless, but on the other side of my front door, she kept knocking and calling for me.

I tried to ignore her, hoping she’d give up and leave. I closed my ears and busied my eyes, but her presence was all around me and my home. She made it clear that she wasn’t leaving until I invited her in. She had nowhere else to be and no-one else she’d rather spend some time with.

She’s not the type I would normally let in, or invite into my home. I could feel into the very core of me that she was trouble. I knew, when I first saw her that we wouldn’t get along and I sensed we had nothing much in common. She appeared as though the life was drained from her, and there was something in her eyes that unsettled me, leaving me with an uncomfortable vulnerability. Her voice was high-pitched and her persistence was met with urgency.

I tried to make excuses for net letting her in. I asked her to reschedule. I questioned whether she had the right address because I had never seen her before. I tried to tell her that I was busy, I had errands to run, people to catch up with, phone calls to make, messages to send, a house to clean, a load of laundry and a trip to the stores. She said she wasn’t leaving until I gave her my time.

So, I stepped aside and invited her in. Only, it wasn’t for a few minutes or an hour. Once I let her in, she became comfortable in my space and wouldn’t leave. She shadowed me during the day doing day to day chores. She was there when I took a bath, avoided a phone call, took a nap, and especially at night, her presence was overwhelming and she wouldn’t stop talking, reminiscing and reminding me of my failures. She was so loud at night and when I placed my hands over my ears, her awful voice grew louder and louder in my head. She wouldn’t keep quiet, and wouldn’t let me sleep.

She was in the passenger seat while I was driving, in the store when I was pushing a cart, in the kitchen when I was cooking and in the living room while flipping through channels.

She was overbearing, hurtful and unkind. She wouldn’t let met breathe without her. She took away all the things I valued, cherished and loved to do. After a while, she kept me home, hid my perfume, hair brush and make-up. The laundry piled up, but she didn’t care. The dust moved in when she did, but she didn’t care. She brought me to tears more often than not, and took away my dignity, hope and joy. She stole what was important in my life from me and she made me question everything I thought I knew. She told me over and over again that God had forgotten me, and that she was in control whether or not I liked it. I had invited her in.

She said that I was a failure as a human being, a daughter and a sister. She said there were things that I just should have known, but I couldn’t even do that. She said that I was ugly inside and out, and that my tears were too late. Wisdom came too late for me. A hard heart took too long to soften. It was just too late for me.

She spoke for me. She changed my routine to place me at my most vulnerable. Each day she spent with me, her grip on me grew stronger and stronger.

She just wouldn’t let go and controlled more and more of me until one day, when I thought I was drowning in her shadow, God stepped in, and brought in a little army who overpowered her, and banished her from my home and my life.

They stood watch until I was able to free myself from the misery she cast over me. She left, reluctantly. Humiliated and defeated. She left and I was finally freed from the prison she locked me in for months. I could breathe again. For the first time in months, I didn’t hear her voice when I closed my eyes. I slept. I could sleep. I dusted and did the laundry. I took a walk around outside and took care of the autumn leaves. I messaged friends. I spoke without a restricting lump in my throat.

She left and it all just hits differently now.

I pray for mercy for the next home she gets her claws into. If you let her in, remind her that she is nothing more than a guest in your home. Kick her out when she overstays her welcome and remember, she lies.

Her name is Grief.

With love,
Alice VL

𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝖠𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽. 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈, 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝖺𝗒. 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅.

𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗀𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇-𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇-𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖮𝗁, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖡𝗎𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁. 𝖨𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆, 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋, 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗒. 𝖡𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗇𝗎𝖻𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗍. 𝖨𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌.

𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍, 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗒.

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦,
𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘝𝘓

You promise him that it is him you want and that it’s him you want to be with. You pledge your love and devotion to him, because you do love him, and you are devoted to only him. You love him wildly. You love him faithfully. You love him so incredibly passionately. Your heart can compare him to no other, and you dream of your tomorrows with him. You have every intention of being faithfully dedicated to him, to just one. In the end, we all can only love one. We are made to only love one.

There is only one lid per pot. We were never made to love more than one, the same. We were never made to love more than one at the same time, were we? And at first, it is only him. You bind and pledge your truest of love and allegiance to only one. All that came before him, no longer matters. A love that you once cherished and held onto so feverishly before your new him showed up, is at once, abandoned and disregarded. It must be forgotten. You tell yourself that it was never love, and that you just need time to adjust to your new him.

You are keen to distract yourself from your other him, the one you once knew so well. Someone you might have clung to because of familiarity or shelter, but not love. It could never have been love because you love your new him, you know you do. You are convinced that the lingering emotions for your other him will eventually dwindle. You are sure it will. It must. We were not made to love more than one. But the time you’ve allowed for yourself to adjust, changes nothing. You still and do love him, the new him you undertook to love forever.

But then, one night and without warning, you pretend to be asleep because you were unexpectedly reminded of your other him’s scent earlier on. No matter how hard you tried to ignore the memory of him, no matter how desperate you were to disregard the rush of emotions that had abruptly found its way back into your heart, you just can’t shake it off. Your new him can’t know. You question why the sentience of your other him’s odor so absolutely unnerves you.

You lay reminiscing about how he once touched you and how he felt against you. You rebuke yourself for thinking of your other him again. You begin to whisper silent “I miss you’s” to your other him when no-one else can hear, and you hate yourself for doing so. You punish yourself for being suddenly perplexed by what it all means, and where it would all end? You try to think back to when it all began, and why you failed to see it creeping up on you? You wonder how long he has truly been on your mind for, and how long the memory of him will still last? You don’t love him; it has to be so. You love another, it has to be so. You make no sense of anything as you urgently aim to decrypt your untaught emotions. You try and find a trigger. Why is he on your mind when your new him is so staunchly set in your heart?

Why does the memory of your other him’s voice make way for the broadest smile on your face? You want your other him to stop launching, what you deem to be, a brutal attack on your heart and on your mind. You choose your new him. Your soul mate, he has to be. Why is your other him living in your mind? Why is your heart searching for him again? Why does the memory of him suddenly hurt so much? Is it your heart that made the very first move? What about your new him? Why are you still so captivated by your other him that you continue to seek him out, but at the same time, you can’t let go of your new him?

Why do you set aside time to find your other him in your mind, and linger there with him? Is your soul pursuing him? As you dawdle with your other him in your mind, you discover in horror that your body too, still craves his. You play your “could-have-been’s” out like a movie in your mind, and you can barely breathe as your heart begins to race fiercely. While you lay there, pretending to sleep, you see your other him’s eyes staring back at you.

You turn over to your new him who lays staring out into the dark, leaving you to pretend to be asleep. You say that you just want to look into his eyes. You are desperate to hear your heart whisper that he is the one. Your heart does not let you down, it tells you that it loves him, and it can’t lose him. You ask your new love not to move, not to say a word, and not to ask you about it. You whisper how you love him, but your soul reminds you of your other him, at the very same time.

You lay watching him as he falls asleep. You realize that you should have known that it was coming to this. You were blind, you never wanted to see. There are traces of them both in your eyes and in your heart. You know that you love them equally, just differently. You choose one to love in full view of the world, while you can only love the other in your mind. Equally, just differently. He might find the proof of your shredded love in your eyes, but there are no lies in your love for your new him.

You don’t love your other him like that, you can’t. You know that you love your new him, but the universe has asked you to love more than one. It has asked you to choose one, and long for the other, for the remainder of your life. It has demanded a choice and when you finally choose, it unforgivingly begins to toss memories of the other him at you. It heartlessly begins two different stories in your heart, and it watches you play out the love you have for them both. It has cruelly allowed you to be torn between two hearts, two souls and two him’s. It reminds you of the one when you are with the other. It lets you long for the other when you’re with the one.

It let you choose, and it left you feeling as though you were never equipped to make that choice. You should never have had to choose. You should never have been damned into an eternity of loving two, equally but differently. You can’t choose. You never could.

You love them both. You need them, both. Your heart won’t let you choose now, when it’s already too late. When you have already chosen. When you probably would have chosen exactly the same, again. The universe has allowed another to stroll thoughtlessly into your heart, and blind you for a while. Only for a while. Only for a bit. For only a moment, it let you believe that you love only one. It let you breathe before it hurled your other him back at you, and asked you to love them both, equally. Yet differently. It has asked you to love them both all at the same time, when the world allows you to love only one.

On the corner of a busy and bustling city street, she saw him behind his easel as people hurriedly passed him by, almost as though he was fiercely guarded from the world around him. He smiled slightly as he clutched a paint brush in his hand and whistled a love song that could not be drowned out by the lively noises of the streets. With each brush stroke, he brought to life the waves of an ocean that were crashing harshly on the sands of a beach.

She stood silently as she watched him paint the seas that reflected the rising sun of the morning sky. She gazed longingly at the life he was creating by the mere strokes of his brush, and through the gentle whistles of his love songs. With a trouncing heart, she walked up to him, and through the shudders of her own voice, she asked him if he only painted scenes of the oceans and the skies? He lowered his brush and grinned, before he told her that for a few bucks, he would paint her anything she wanted.

She fell to her knees and grabbed his warm, brilliant hands. She stared at them, confident and hopeful that they would create a painting for her too. She asked him if he could paint her a love story? Without pausing to take a breath, she went on to describe how it should look, just like she had planned when she was only a little girl. She told him of a little blue house, a slight way out of town. She asked him to paint a porch with a swing, so that she could watch over her horses and gaze out onto her flower fields.

She begged him to paint her on that swing in a white cotton dress and make it the very first day of spring. She squeezed his hands tighter, and asked him again, to paint her a love story. He glowered when he noticed the despair in her persuasive eyes. He hurriedly seized a blank canvas and picked up his paint brush. He asked her where she would like him to place her love in the painting, and when she began to whimper softly, he knew he would have to be placed right beside her, where she needed him to be. She asked him if he could perhaps peek into her heart and see how it longs for the way it was before. Before, when her story was a painting that she had once owned. And then, she implored him to place her love’s arms back around her, just like it once was.

She told him how the bright sunrises contradict the dense mist that weighs down so heavily on her. She said that she needed him to paint the joyful sounds of the birds in the mornings, so that her heart could hear them once more. She gently whispered how she wondered why the world continued to turn, and that without her new painting, she was just not sure she could begin again. She asked him to add fireflies to brighten her darkest nights, and she told him to place the stars like a silvery gown around her. She said that she wanted to hang it above her big, empty bed where she feared the dark and dreaded the dawn, all at the same time.

She softly confessed that she reaches for her love in vain, and that she tearfully whispers his name, just as she is about to fall asleep. She reminded the artist not to forget to paint daffodils, so that she can smile instead of cry. She told him to take his time because at that very moment, her heart does not yet have a home, and that it is just a painting, until it becomes her love story.

Among thousands on that city street, she looked past the crowd and saw him standing there. She could barely move when she noticed the abrupt recognition in his face. Her world stood entirely still for just a moment as she anxiously fought to take in a breath of fresh air. With nowhere to hide, her togetherness fell apart and her transparency faded away as he came closer to her.

He was scurrying to catch her, and when he finally reached and embraced her, her heart instantly shuddered and reminded her of their once. Something she had carelessly forgotten, and thought was once lost, had found her again. The tempest inside of her was raging when she remembered how perfectly flawless she felt in his arms. He recklessly evoked the scent of her skin as every memory of a promise they once lived, came flooding back to him. Almost like a song he was once besotted with, but hadn’t heard in far too many years, and how the lyrics remained imprinted in his soul as he memorized each word.

Instinctively, she wanted to grab his hands and beg him to go away with her. To run away. To go too far. Just for one night. To go back to before. Before she was someone else’s wife, and before he was another’s man. To before they knew too much and felt too little. To when they could still effortlessly function on love and desire alone. She wanted one more night to evoke the she, she once was. The she, she was with him.

Far away to a time when they were a them. To let go of their now and forget how they grew up and lost their magic. To before their lights were so cruelly turned down. To a time when no-one else mattered, and not much else was real. To when their bodies spoke so much louder and so much clearer than their voices did. She wanted to go so far back to when their hearts dissolved into their souls, just like they once did. Before life stole their passionate flames. She wanted to sit with him and hold his hand tightly into hers. She wanted to drown in the puddles of his eyes.

She wanted to splash around on the shore with him and gaze up at the stars as they counted almost everyone. She wanted to dream the same dream as he once did, before life stepped in and flung them into separate and untaught terrains. She wanted to go back just for one night and forget that she became someone else’s love. She wanted to forget that she had pledged her heart to another. For one night, she wanted to be free to unreservedly, love him again. She wanted to whisper how her heart still sought him out, and how her body still craved his. She wanted to step back into, and shamelessly linger in a moment she once thought she would never lose.

Instead, they talked and chuckled about old times and just about all they once went through. They spoke like old friends but fell silent and remained hushed about their old love. As though it no longer mattered. As though, it never mattered. As though it never happened. As though, the stars had stolen the memories of a love that once so distractedly captivated and obsessively consumed her.

He hugged her while she desperately held onto him. But, as she was about to beg him for just one more night, she knew that she had to forget him for a while longer. Perhaps forever. She gave him her very best smile as she died just a little inside. By the way he so profusely fought against an uninvited lump in his throat as he unashamedly lied about how wonderful his life had been since, just reminded her of how far they had come without the other.

He held her close enough to whisper how dreadfully he had missed her, but that he was in a hurry to go back to his life without her. He had to leave. When he walked away from her, he was only moments away from asking her to run away. To go too far. Just for one night. To go back to before. Before he was someone else’s man, and before she was another’s wife. To before they knew too much and felt too little.

The world still turns. The seasons still come, and the seasons still go. Autumn changes the color of the leaves, and with winter comes the cold and the snow. In spring, the world cheers at the sight of blossoming flowers and new beginnings. And then in summer, laughter fills and lingers in the air. The world still turns.

The roads are still filled with the sounds of cars making their way down the streets, and the voices of people on city pavements still echo in the distance. Children are still born each day. Lovers fall in love, and lovers fall out of love, every single day. Death comes for those whose time is up, and the world still turns. 

Mornings still come with each new sunrise, while the darkness covers the universe with each sunset. The world awakes, the world goes to sleep. Plans for a new home, a summer holiday, a wintery escape or a
reunion with loved ones are still made. Thanksgiving plans still go ahead, and Christmas is still the happiest time of the year. When the dawn of the new year breaks, she watches how those around her catch their second breath as they joyfully embark on brand-new journeys, changes and brand-new dreams. The world still turns. 

But hers doesn’t. Her world stood still a long time ago, and it no longer turns. She no longer sees the seasons come and go. To her crushed heart, she is stuck in a long, cold winter. Her days may be shorter, but her nights are the longest. It’s when she can barely breathe. It’s when she hears her name being called out over and over again. It’s when she sits up at night, and glares at her hand. She can still feel his in hers. Nothing has changed in the days, weeks, months and years since his leaving. Her world stood still. It has kept her trapped in a kind of a limbo she can’t get out of. One, she just can’t escape from. Everything around her changes, yet nothing is different. Her world stood still. Her life has been shaken, and her heart is shattered. But, for the rest, there is not even a slight indication from the universe that something has changed, something so important to someone so much lesser, has been lost. 

There is nothing to tell her that his leaving has somehow impacted the world, shoved it off-course or shook it slightly off its track. Like it did her. Like it shoved her to the ground and kept her there, some days overwhelmed by an excruciating heartache that becomes physical. It cripples her. It debilitates her. There is nothing to tell her that he was crucial to this world, to this life and to her heart. 

Yet, while the world forgets him, she searches for him at the break of each day, and at the last light of each night. She hunts him between the walls of the home he once lived in. She traces the footprints of a life he once existed so profoundly in. She follows the trails he once took on the city streets, and she continues all the way down to the dirt roads he once found solace in. She retraces the paths he took to the beach, and she follows his tracks to the forest. She searches for him. 

She keeps looking for him. She still hunts him in her world. She tries to find him in crowds on busy and bustling streets. She sits on empty beaches, waiting for him to come up from behind her, and tell her that she was stuck in nothing more than a nightmare. She watches each footprint, listens for each voice, and gazes into many eyes. She hunts for proof that he was once real. She clings to photographs, and she holds on to the memory of him. She does not want the world to forget. She doesn’t want to forget. 

And still, the world turns without him. The laughter in the distance hasn’t changed. Love songs drowning out the sounds of busy streets, hasn’t changed. Lovers meeting and dancing at night, hasn’t changed. Strangers brushing past her without noticing her pain, hasn’t changed. Her tears are still hidden behind a convincing smile. She still hears his voice even though he has been quiet for years. She still follows his scent, even though it never is him. She still hears him whisper her name when the wind blows on dark and cloudy nights. She still sees his shadow when she feels him close to her. Nothing has changed, and it reminds her that the world still turns.

She so wishes it didn’t.

She came home today. She couldn’t quite figure out how many sunrises she had missed, or how many sunsets there were since she had been gone. She came home today, just as she promised she would come back to when she was still a bright-eyed teenager with a million dreams, and a gazillion smiles in her heart. She came back to the village she left her soul in, just like she swore she would come back for someday. Just as soon as she had found her wonderful.

She came home today, to the village that had kept her heart safely tucked away in its palms since she left, almost a thousand moons ago. The village that had patiently watched her dream, carefully guided her on all the roads she walked on and led her to all the roads she would end up taking someday. The village that had finally raised her. She came home today to the houses she knew so well, the trees she had found shade in on so many scorching days, the school she had found family in, the people she adored and the children who had now all grown up.

She came home to a religion her village had passed on to her, from the very moment she was born. She was too young to understand, and not old enough to know that it would someday be the village, she would leave everything behind for, only, it would be one promise too late. She came home to the mountains that echoed the laughter that used to hang in the air as they climbed to the top, where they would sit together and watch the sun set over their village. It was almost as though a curtain to a stage was being drawn, and they … the audience.

She came home to the waves that continued to whisper their names as they crashed heartlessly onto the shore. It was almost as though to remind her that her soul had remained behind, yet, it continued to linger somewhere in between the stars and the ocean. She came home to the streets that would still lead her to the place where her heart found a home all those moons ago. She came home to the trees that once blew endless messages of love into her ear, as she walked through the lanes. It was not that long ago that she left her village, and her love behind. It was not that long ago that she swore to him she would return, just as soon as she found her magnificent. She said that she would bring all her wonderful with her, and she promised to share it with him someday. She vowed that she would never forget him, or the village that her roots were firmly planted in.

She asked him to wait for her, and she begged him to believe in her, and her promise. She thought that the city streets would be paved in gold and that the morning sun would be so bright. She thought that the city stars at night would perhaps, blind her. She thought that the nights would be shorter, and that her days would be warmer. She thought that she could get lost in the crowds of a thousand strangers on the city streets, as she quietly and inconspicuously, searches for her beautiful. She thought that she could become fabulous and be amazing before she goes home again to the village that was keeping her roots watered. She thought that she could grow up and win her worth in the world before she came home to her forever.

But how was she to know that her value was never found in her search for wonderful? How was she to know that her splendor would not mean much at all, and that her hunt would all be for nothing? That it would end up being one promise too late? How was she to know that her glory was inside of her, all along? How could she ever have known that when she finally came home, she would come home to a hollowness she never thought she would feel in the village that once filled her with butterflies and bubbles?

She came home today, just like she promised she would. She found her wonderful, and she became extraordinary for him. She found all she had ever searched for, and all she thought she would ever need, but she came home … one promise too late.

Coming home one promise too late, was never in her plans or her dreams. She never thought that he could leave. She never thought that her village would grow up and change just as they did. She never thought that the faces she once knew so well, would be gone from the only home they had ever known. She never thought that she would be welcomed by a whole lot of nothingness when she came home again.

She never thought that their village would become a total stranger to her, with strange new people and strange new buildings. She never thought that the trees that were once a part of their religion, would be cold-heartedly cut down, and that their mountain would be covered by brand-new houses. She never thought that he would leave. She never thought she would be one promise too late.

As she drove through the streets of the village that was still holding firmly onto her heart and her roots, she realized that she never needed to go in search of any kind of remarkable. She was already extraordinary for him. She never needed to hunt any kind of fabulous, he had already spotted that in her. Just like him, she came from the village with its own fairy tales and enchantments, and that was all the wonderful they ever needed.

She came home today, to discover that he had found his own kind of exquisite. His very own fairytale, and his very precious wonderful. He had been talking to his angel about new sunrises and brand-new sunsets. They had spoken about a place where he could see the sun come up again, and where the streets were paved in gold, and lined with flowery blossoms. He had found his delight in the echoing of the moon, in the whispers of the stars, and in the drops of the rain. He had spoken to his angel about finding a place where his soul could rest for a while, and where his heart could love forever.

He asked about taking one final breath over here, and he whispered about taking another first one, over there. There, where his eyes can once again, see through the foggy mists that were blinding him over here. There, where his heart could be unbroken, and where he no longer had to wait for her to come home.

He asked his angel to close his eyes, but not to let hers cry. He told his angel that she always had to run, but that he just never really knew why? He said that sometimes, he could feel her fall entirely apart under their stormy skies, but that he just knew, she wouldn’t be home soon. He told his angel that he could feel there had to be something more out there for him, and that he could sometimes, feel the rumbling underneath his feet. He told his angel that he was tired and could no longer fight.

He said that he’d hate for her to see him so broken and defeated, and that they both knew it would be one battle he would lose. He asked his angel if it could perhaps be his turn to find his very own wonderful, away from their village and away from their world? His angel said that it was alright, she would anyway be home, one promise too late.