Oh the heaviness of disappointment. Scary because on the other side lies a new chapter, an unknown, a new perspective on the subject at hand that will never again be seen by your previous self.
A death happens in disappointment: the old you with old eyes, and old love starts to be replaced slowly by something new. Tears don't come easily in this stage because instead of cathartic release the heart is numbed, encased in anger, beatless.
I guess in any death, there is always grief.
I reflect on that old me, swishing thoughts around hoping a moment of clarity will reveal it self. It doesn't come. But change prompted by disappointment happens anyhow without intent, forced forward by the unforgiving nature of time. And then you're new.
The pain of re-birth healed by a baptism of tears.
The new me clings to a new hope, a shiny decree which states: I deserve different, maybe better?
