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Most notably a religious term regaurding salvation; the teacher today defined it, or rather opened it up as 'what is my purpose?'. Wether wildly misinformed or an attempt at being witty, the idea of purpose is infitely more interesting than 'salvation'. It seems like every classmate had an answer, wether it was well defined or not, they had an idea. I can think of no purpose, nor could I understand how they as a whole would be so ready to answer, so seemingly sure and so very content with what they were choosing or had chosen to do with their lives. Is everyone really so content with mediocrity? The man I sit beside in that class was the only person I could say had good reason for his answer, his children meant everything to him; an ideal father I think. Not a soul in the room, child bearing or otherwise said the same, which was a sad indication of the low quality of parenting at this time.



What purpose do I have? a selfish thing to spend any time thinking about but maybe it will help, no? Why do I exist? When I was young I had no better grasp on the idea until I was certain that I'd fallen in love. At that point I would have given my life to benefit her in any way, and when I was unable to, I lost my mind. So much did I love that I believed as true as death claims all life that I should and would die of cardiomyopathy should she pass before me, that I would be so sad at her passing I would follow shortly after. When she left, I couldn't stand myself; I was not right in the head, I convinced myself that my purpose was to re-attain a place in her heart despite that knowing it was a lie. No matter how hard a person tries, when they've been let go, there's no hope; the person they chase will never glance back over their shoulder, never offer a hand when you've become so weary of chasing that your legs buckle and you fall down.



It's like nothing else in the world to be hurt in such a way, to compare it to something in nature would be unfair. When a beast happens upon a pup, there is no love, no bond, no way in which the pup could feel confused or betrayed amidst all the fear and pain of being killed. No wounds linger on to haunt it years down the road; it is afraid for its life, if it's lucky, it's death is instant, if not it is a brief thing at least. The wounds left from bonding to one who pulls away are so deep as to rip out chunks of the respective heart, then why have I not died? So. . . unsettling is this, that I live. . .I know my entire heart was hers and without question she left it in tatters, so why do I breathe? why do I walk? why am I able to sit and think about this day after day, wondering if my love wasn't sincere enough. If I live, if my heart is not broken to the point of killing me, did I not give her enough? Could I have given her more? She did not die, but she is gone from my life forever, and while I hate her more and more for everything she's become, I still cannot stop loving her. . . Then why can I not die? This ideal of mine, suffering a fatally broken heart, I believe with all of mine that I should be six feet under from such, but I am not. . .I know at first I was so reluctant to accept that I gave chase, for years I chased and here I am with nothing to show but empty hands and a heart full of lament and anger, should the cumulative sorrow not have taken me? I do not understand, I only understand now what I want. . . but it is something I have no control over. My ideal, passed me by long ago. . .now I watch it quietly from afar and think somberly, waiting and hoping my heart will finally understand that the chase is over, that it and I have no purpose anymore. . . that it can lose all hope like I have and then, when it stops, we can finally let her go, and serve the one purpose I believe to be my own. I can prove to myself that love, unrequieted or not, can be as true and pure as it ought to be; if I can die of a broken heart, I will know the ideal I've held so much faith in actually exists amongst the atrocities of this world.