I’m not frigid, I’m indifferent. I’m sick of being accused of running away just because I’m scared of commitment. I’m not going to express interest in every male that crosses my path, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I don’t need cliché words telling me my worth. I can live without a hand holding mine, without those warm fuzzy moments of intimacy that leave you so incredibly “happy” that you quite literally can not wipe the stupid smile off your face. I’ve had them. It was nice. Thing is, I never relied on them, even when I was led to believe I could. Caution? Maybe. More cynicism. Fear of becoming akin to those I find so incredibly distasteful: people with the belief that in the absence of someone else, they are less of their own person. I don’t believe in soul mates, nor do I believe in the concept of a “one true love” out there waiting for me. People take what they get (or what they desperately go out searching for), and then they proceed to label it as “love” until oops, one day, love just didn’t work out. I am not a fragment, I am a whole. Certain people can and have weakened my walls, maybe even left me a little worse for wear. I don’t care. I’ll always be bitter if I lose someone, even a friend in my life for unexplainable reasons; I can’t not care about people. When it comes to someone “breaking my heart” as they say, well, I don’t think I’d give anyone the authority to do that. You can pile on the bullshit about how I haven’t found the “one” yet, and that I’ll change my mind, but I know myself. And I’m honest with myself. I will let myself be happy with anyone that comes my way. If I think its worth the effort, I’ll give it my all; give them my all. I won’t run away without just cause. But if they walked away the next day, you wouldn’t see me shedding tears. I’ve shed tears for reasons far more worthy of them than rejection or differences or failed love. I’m bitter, and I love it. I don’t mind thinking about myself, my friends, my surroundings, my life, and my future rather than a certain special someone all the time. I don’t crave what I’m content without. The moments of weakness when solitude slips into loneliness never last long; nor do they scar. They pass. The butterflies never last; they’re just moths enhanced by our disillusioned sentiments. During my façade of experiencing highs and lows, I’m secretly always grounded. I’m chained to reality, and perhaps to a stubborn insistence that everything I feel is temporary and misguiding. The solution is to always think; to resolve to feel nothing but the acknowledgement of feelings themselves. I’m not a closed box, I’ll express what I need to in the heat of the moment. What human doesn’t need to do that? At the end of the day, however, despite any fluctuations of feeling, any arms of experience reaching grabbing and pulling me off course, I’ll remain where I am. Numb, and pretty comfortable.