Many celebrities are asked about what love is, how they understand it. Everyone answers in their own way. But they are united only by the fact that no one is able to give a final answer, and the dots have not yet been put over i. I am glad that, although I am a mere mortal, I found the very long-awaited answer. I found it, clutching my hand on my chest, when I walked around the room like ancient Greek philosophers, and nothing could make me give up this habit; not a word from people who are very concerned about my health, not a word from neighbors, supposedly girls should not behave like this, they need to do more housework and create a home comfort. No matter what, I still remained myself and continued to fill my constantly functioning brain with various interesting thoughts.
In my diary, to the question: "What is love, and how do you understand it?", I wrote with great pleasure: "Love is only for those who are created to create a love story. So many disappointments in people's lives happen only because they give out wishful thinking for real. And the love they dream of so much is given to those who are specially born for it" Do not think that it was easy to come to such a conclusion. To be fair, I have to say how many innocent tears I shed. I had to learn to laugh through tears, to say goodbye without forgetting, saying goodbye, to continue to love in silence. Over time, the cruel life took pity on me, and at the age of nineteen I reached the truth that ordinary mortals do not even dream of. It started to seem funny to me when other girls were crying for love. And I calmed them with the same words that calmed me once. "Everything will be fine with you… or without you" And those poors begged me to comfort them with words that the next one will be much better. Since only the truth saves a person, I told them the simple truth: "There is no such truth that the next one is better than the previous one. There are only good ones," I sympathetically wiped away bitter tears, stroked their long hair with sympathy. I am still surprised at the pride I felt for them, realizing more and more that a woman loves more than men, and that she is much nobler in love. Therefore, I love feminine nature. Her dumb, noble nature. And I want to tell you the story of a failed love. My dear reader, you probably already know something about my character, but in order for you not to consider me like this from birth, I will tell you how I became one.
It was when I was in the eighth grade. I was one of those who knew my worth, who considered myself an opening to society and precocious. Imitating the most sentimental heroes of books, I solemnly repeated: "There is no love." But the more I inspired myself with these thoughts, the more I wanted them to turn out to be fakes, and that, like on a clear day, the same guy appeared, whose appearance I am waiting for with false hatred. And so, it happened. But I, absorbed in myself, seem to have forgotten that he should love me too. You, probably, my dear reader, have thought about the story of unrequited, or at least platonic love. What if I tell you the wrong thing and not the other?!