Anamnesis
Before we take a dive, we look for the depth measurement and decide what toll we can and cannot take in the chance of hurt. In avoiding dally, scientists rely on a method that preaches the best results for experiments that know no bounds quite yet. We teach our naive generations to look both ways before crossing the street; which path will they take to reach the other side? It is amazing how often this metaphor can translate, obstructing time, energy, and hope.
A flower which withers without proper care will always learn how to survive, whether it be in this life or in educating their evolutionary process. Time is what builds us up and up to further face more headstrong winds of fury, shortness of breath from unannounced suffering, and destruction at the hands of our own inner decaying, both from physical and mental wear and tear. It is a gift to grow older every day, but it is the balance within an amanuensis memory that translates into our who, what, when, where, and how.
As I have avoided repeating the past, it seems that some experiments are bound to be tested at least 100 times to then mature a following discovery into the lessons of humanness. The scientific method for the plight of love is as follows:
Excitement/Nervousness (Observation)
Google, Reddit, Personal Testaments of Experience (Question)
Communication (Research)
Attachment Styles (Hypothesize)
More Communication (Experiment)
Time (Test Hypothesis)
Chemical, Physical, and Mental States (Draw Conclusions)
I want it to be you (Report)
Maybe my mistake was not reporting my past medical history before clearing my heart’s vitals ready for an experiment that left me feeling unfinished and yearning for a complete result. Even as the ocean does not ask for water simply because it is filled to the brim, I wish I had felt that same whole embellishment sewn into my own body, only transparent when it rose as physical evidence on my neck and cheeks with every exaggerated nudge at the heart. I am an organ donor, ya know?
But I am drained coming home from these tests, and I still yearn for the hope that an independent variable come long from fate, will factor out what is now done, what is now slowly bubbling inside of me. Some may say love is poison because it kills you slowly, blunt in its form of torturous do-over after do-over of broken promises and fickleness. But I believe we would die for those we truly loved anyway, without objection.
