Rehab (A Secret Confession Of A Cynic)

Tonight, my fear was that the memories of how it felt—every sensation: the hearing and the speaking to every exchanged word, the sights of your features, fingers running through the hair—fading away over time.
The certainty, as convinced as ever—in fact, as I have never been before—becoming unfamiliar.
The chemistry, although inexplainable, turning into nothing but part of the past, part of the temporary, part of the non-existence in the future.

You want to know the key? The key is timing. Everything depends on timing.
Time is our friend, who fixes everything. It is great company, but everybody for himself, time is just another tool of fate, of Plans.
What if this is the chance and we missed it? What if, in the future, we have regrets because by then there is nothing we can do about it. That is the worst position to be in, a situation where there is nothing you can do about it.

What if we were the lucky ones this time? No? Are grand romantic beliefs so much rejected and frowned upon as to no exceptions allowed at all?
Can one stay hopeful and believe one-sided without looking, or being, a fool, but to be genuinely admired, or even to be rewarded?

The act of falling for someone, when not responded to, will gradually and eventually (also hopefully) change to helplessly and inevitably the needly mandatory act of getting back up; an image of falling on your knees, then with effort standing back up on your feet.
Usually, I feel hopeful for this “recovery”, but at this moment although it has not occurred yet, I fear it. For the reason that I simply want to believe and don’t want to forget.