No es la primera vez que Porthos se pasea por las entradas de este blog. Su presencia en mi vida es, hasta el día de hoy sumamente importante.
In English... Just for you.
He was with absolute no doubt, my first love. And the best first love a girl can ever wish for.
He put his world to my feet for me to take it, he wrote to me in Latin, spoke to me in English, and loved me in perfect and flawless Spanish.
He was the kind of love who presented me with "The Little Prince" by his own hand, who waited for 3 hours by my doorstep on my birthday to awe me with the most spectacular surprise, he gave me yellow roses (my ever favorites) every month just because, he sang to me when I was saddest, and he kept me sane when I needed sanity the most.
The attitude, the smile, the way he stared at me, kissed me, fought me and waited for me; was always spectacular. And spectacular as he was, he made me fall in love with him in a way I never knew I was capable of and, truly I was blissfully aware of the intensity of this love. Thankfully.
That awareness intensified on the afterward.
The hole in my chest, as if I was going to fall apart because of his absence, the charade I had to fabricate every day for the sake of my family, the effort put on College test's in order to forget, and the depression caused by the awakening of another day with his image on my mind, was the only reminder that he was, in fact, real. And much more important, the reminder that I could love so deeply, because I could ache and grief even more deeply. As well as capable to also loathe so intensely because that's how I felt for so long... Pure and concentrated loath for the harm he inflicted on me, not so graciously, of course.
And because of him, I still know that I can love like that. And I have not gave up the idea of loving so beautifully again and again.
So thanks a lot.
In English... Just for you.
He was with absolute no doubt, my first love. And the best first love a girl can ever wish for.
He put his world to my feet for me to take it, he wrote to me in Latin, spoke to me in English, and loved me in perfect and flawless Spanish.
He was the kind of love who presented me with "The Little Prince" by his own hand, who waited for 3 hours by my doorstep on my birthday to awe me with the most spectacular surprise, he gave me yellow roses (my ever favorites) every month just because, he sang to me when I was saddest, and he kept me sane when I needed sanity the most.
The attitude, the smile, the way he stared at me, kissed me, fought me and waited for me; was always spectacular. And spectacular as he was, he made me fall in love with him in a way I never knew I was capable of and, truly I was blissfully aware of the intensity of this love. Thankfully.
That awareness intensified on the afterward.
The hole in my chest, as if I was going to fall apart because of his absence, the charade I had to fabricate every day for the sake of my family, the effort put on College test's in order to forget, and the depression caused by the awakening of another day with his image on my mind, was the only reminder that he was, in fact, real. And much more important, the reminder that I could love so deeply, because I could ache and grief even more deeply. As well as capable to also loathe so intensely because that's how I felt for so long... Pure and concentrated loath for the harm he inflicted on me, not so graciously, of course.
And because of him, I still know that I can love like that. And I have not gave up the idea of loving so beautifully again and again.
So thanks a lot.
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