Refusing To Die Before You're Buried #Love #solitude #chupumballs #loneliness #vulnerability

Refusing to love something, because it will one day be taken, is just grief trying to negotiate with the future. And the future does not negotiate. All you do is cancel. The love, all you cancel is the love. The loss was never optional. There's a massive difference between loneliness and solitude. If you're genuinely whole alone, then look, that's a virtue. But I'm talking about the people who complain about loneliness, the people who complain about their starvation with one hand, while actively reinforcing the high walls of their prison with the other. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a hunger strike disguised as a diet. We tell the broken to be a man. What the fuck does that even mean anymore? I've seen where that blind instruction leads. Soldiers returning from the front lines with their minds completely shattered into pieces. Refusing the very hands that could hold them out of the dirt, because admitting the vulnerability doesn't fit the blueprint they were sold. And that pride kills them. It kills them by the thousands, by the millions, entirely alone in the tarmac. Whatever masculinity actually is, it cannot be a system that requires the systematic classification of the host. Because that version carries an undeniable body count. Real strength is the emotional intelligence to pursue love and connection, to pursue health. Knowing that reaching out is never retreat and letting someone pass the gates is not a loss of sovereign ground. When I finally chose to dismantle my own defenses and risk the machinery again, with the full blinding knowledge that the entire engine could go horribly wrong, I didn't do it out of bravery. I did it because I had spent a lifetime living inside the rubble of those high walls. And I knew the exact nature of the rot that takes root in an examined life, bitterness, cruelty. A slow insanity that breeds in the dark when you attempt to live in existence with absolutely nothing at stake. I would rather roll the dice into the dust, knowing they can come up snake eyes, then spend the reminder of my days suffocating in a concrete room where nothing can ever touch me again, including the very things I am starting for. Is this being hopeful? No. This is refusing to die before your buried. I'm not going to convince myself I like to be alone just to cope with how much I actually hate it.