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My warped imagination of love has changed drastically. I don’t believe love are the roses and the glamorized nights under shining lights, or at least not just that. Sometimes love is as simple as a hand, a hand to hold through the darkness; a body to embrace in the rainstorm. An umbrella, a shield, a light, love.
We sheltered our thoughts from the world. Oh but it rained, and we were all baptized with the holy saying: “are you not a man?” We learnt how to cry within. We learnt how to internalize pain for peace sake. It became the gift that kept giving.
But I believe it’s time to be free. If it will cost me vulnerability, to shed tears when needed, to unlearn and rewire, to be humane, to feel. Then I am ready to change from a boy, to a man.
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