Oh, fine (she said with an exasperated sigh). So I am not nearly as bitter as I pretend to be.
I suppose I was only fooling myself, anyway; everyone else could see that I was (am!) still just as much a foolish romantic as always. Even at my darkest, when I couldn’t imagine ever considering such a thing for myself, I never stopped believing that romance existed, that love existed in the world. That Love existed, with a capital L, Love as a force for good in the world and as a motivation and a reason for going ever on and on.
I may still be a foolish romantic but I’m a twice-shy one, at the very least.
So if I am not actually bitter – though I wore bitterness like a cloak, the better part of this last year – does that actually make me sweet? I don’t know if I’m ready to accept that yet. Sweet, like candy (like candyfloss, spun sugar! accepting that I am both spun sugar and spun glass at the same time has cured me of the angst I felt about it – I can be both at the same time without negating one or the other). Sweet as sugar, sweet as pie, sweet-toothed (that one I can readily accept). A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet (and I do love to smell of roses). Short and sweet (laughably true, if indeed I am).
Take the bitter with the sweet, and of course this has to be true, it is true of life.
Sweet on you. And yes, I suppose this is true, too.
seafoam&stardust 