Pain

A torn chest, a battered soul, and dreams shattered are what remains after the storm of disillusionment.

What sin do those who dream of a past that will never return commit?

I can now imagine the pain of Don Quixote, who dreamed of a world in which the sword was the tool of justice, where avenging wrongs and undoing injustices was a noble profession and not merely an old man’s simple madness…

Can anyone else imagine the pain Don Quixote felt when he realized that no one, besides himself, shared the same dream?

I always dreamed of that medieval love, the kind that would lead you to die for the sweet kiss of a lady.

That love that leads you to fight dragons, kill giants, conquer entire armies just to win a sweet glance from the woman you love.

That love that leads you to duel to the death against anyone who blasphemed the honor of your lady.

A simple love, a complete love, that fills your chest and your mind entirely.

For three years I thought I had found someone capable of understanding it, capable of loving in the same way I did, and even more, I believed that they loved me in that way.

But, like Don Quyixote, reality overshadows dreams, and I find myself as the only being capable of loving another person in such a way.

It hurts to know that I lived three years of deception.
It hurts to know that you can’t go back.
It hurts to know that those who say love doesn’t exist may be right.

It hurts, and it hurts a lot.

This time it is not the man from the silver mountain, completely oblivious to the mundane problems outside the net. This time it is a simple man, with a broken heart and eyes full of tears.