When we’re children, it’s easier to talk about love. We get old, and the older we get, the more hardened by life, the more suffering in the body, the more injustice, the more anger,
the less desire to talk about love.
Less faith in love.
I don’t know.
I miss talking about love. I miss a time when I considered love a simple, even natural thing, like getting water from the fridge. A spoonful of dulce de leche. A cornstarch biscuit.
I have caused pain, but I’m also too hurt to talk about love. And at the same time, I wanted to.
Maybe I need to let the child within me come to the surface. The child forgives. I wanted to be a child again, and forget that the world is so fierce.