… so that every time you grow certain of loving a bunch of people, one of them you will care about too much.
You will be forced to leave before you will have felt part of the pack.
You will wander all your days, searching, always allowing the old hopes to surface.
Loving.
Praying not to love another again.
Bringing your whole energy into making people happy, and not understanding what it is that truly makes them so, or never possessing that which makes them so.
You will be loved by many, and you will love them in return. But your days of ease will be brief, and their memory will fade away. You will disbelieve you have been loved.
You will be remembered, but not the way you are.
The crooked memories of you will be prized.
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