Leaving.

Feelings are a very common subject for culture, literature, cinema and art. Often depicted as involuntary, uncontrollable and random, I believed for a long time that feelings are not to be chosen nor controlled by any means; they are either felt or not felt.

I've come to realized these last few years this very common mistake: avoiding responsibility. Feelings are very tangled with intentions: we are the ones that choose wether to act or not to act on the emotions someone inspire into us. Unfed atraction dies, as well as interest, so it does the deepest of loves.

Unwelcomed sensations have come across my chest for months. Now that's time to choose, I believe it's time to act as a grown up and just... let it all go away.

No one.

I don't know what happened, what chemical reaction took over my cells, but as soon as our lips touched after so long, my blood started boiling under my skin. As if all oxygen had abandoned my body, a seemingly outstanding pressure on my chest caused an odd panic to run wildly and impregnate my veins with some urge. The urge to get my control and space back safe, I guess, as I felt in danger. But my brain had gone blank, reduced to ashes, wrapped up in his heat. His heat, all over me, all around me, was pretty much all I could think or feel, spoiling my heart to a new, unknown race.

I then realized I had spent too much time thinking and too little time feeling. How on earth could I ever doubt my future, my feelings? Why would I put my happiness on the line for stability? Listening to anyone but my heart, I had done nothing but damage to myself and our relationship, thinking on stupid terms such as numbers, objectives and deadlines. I had forgotten what passion felt like, having all blood concentrated on my pelvis, as guilt made me regret that look of lost boy on his eyes, as I realized he was scared because I made him feel that way. One more time, he made me wonder why he still stands by my side, when no one has, where no one would.