There was a time when I believed hate was more potent than love. This sad belief was guided by the realization that I'd witness hate rule over love in everyday life. From friends turn foe, family conflict, and drama. Down to my own relationships where like or the beginnings of love expired, turning sour.
My mother's love for me would hurt, confusing my brain, and I'd come to see that she'd been taking out all of her pain and frustration on me. My father's absence spoke for itself, but every now and then, there'd come a day when a call would arrive, his voice on the other end, proclaiming a love he wasn't able to show and I hated that and I since then realized that I hated that kind of love. That version of love that makes you feel lost and tired. The kind of love that ceases to feel like love over time. The type of love that traumatizes you so much that instead of avoiding it, you seek it out because it's all you know; it's what your heart deems as familiar.
There was a time when I believed hate was more potent than love, but after the failures of two long-term relationships, that maybe should have made me feel like that idea was more true than ever. I stopped to think about what those versions of love that I'd experienced consisted of and why my outlook became so negative.
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