I was 19 when I first decided to let go.
I wrote essays and poems to articulate how incredibly hard it was. It’s as if I have torn half of my heart, shredded it, thrown the pieces to the sea, only to realize that they’re all I ever wanted in the world.
And trust me I did everything. I swam into the deepest parts of the ocean to collect the pieces once again, but there is no undo anymore.
At 29 was the last time I decided to let go.
And I still wrote love e-mails and poetries to articulate how it felt. But now I have given up a part of my heart that I will always have, wrapped it in gold and red, sent it to the sky knowing that it was a love I never really wanted.
And even if it comes back, like a beautiful hot-air balloon gently landing by the doorstep, there is no undo anymore.
In between the first and last times I have let go, was a space – a space where the necessary happened.
Where I have left, where I was left, where I have found and have been found. Where I wrote what I learned and studied what I wrote. Where I discovered that I was looking at the world with my little eyes, when the world has been willing and ready to be explored in massive, million ways.
It was a space where books mattered more than people. But people proving to be more compelling after every book finished. Where love has unfolded, in different shape, and and a different sound, and shade, and… it’s kinder, and freer and truer more than ever.
I wonder what would have happened, if I never learned to let go of the love that were never meant for me.
Would have I learned to truly love at all?