All my life, I desired love. I desired to be cared for.
But every time I look into the mirror — even in my imagination — I ask myself:
Am I worthy of someone’s time?
Am I worthy of someone’s gaze?
Am I worthy of someone’s love and happiness?
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Whenever I walk late at night through the streets, I see people holding each other tightly, as if they’re clinging to their dreams to keep them from slipping away.
I’ve seen hugs warmer than blood.
And yet, I just walk — staring at the streetlights like a car that doesn’t know its destination.
Everyone in my life has, at the very least, felt what it’s like to be loved — even on the surface.
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I am lost.
I am wandering.
I am a walking shadow in the bright light of others.
All my life, I have longed — not just for love, but for warmth in someone's heart.
But the coldness of the world creates a fog that envelops me,
blurring my face, my shape, and my hope.
I’ve wanted to be chosen — unconditionally.
Even if I cannot be seen.
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But then, the mirror I once saw my reflection in… broke itself.
Does unconditional love really exist?
Can love come without expectations?
And will he come if you are not there?
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People choose us because we are something.
The world loves artists because they create — even when they don’t know why.
Social media loves influencers because they influence — even when they’re empty.
We love people, perhaps, because they’re kind, beautiful, or intelligent.
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So I ask:
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Will the world still love someone who is nothing?
No.
Nobody loves for nothing.
Every declaration of love carries a because, an if, or a silent hope.
We love because we want to feel lovable.
Love, at its core, is a concept of comfort.
And the ache I’ve felt — I realize now — is a survival instinct.
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Unconditional love, if it truly existed, would make the world stand still.
No growth. No movement.
It would be stagnant.
When someone helps a stranger, it's not always for return —
but for the subtle feeling of being liked, of being seen.
Even that help carries a quiet expectation:
a hope that something might change.
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They say a parent’s love is the closest thing to unconditional love.
But is it, really?
Do they work every day, provide and sacrifice, just to be ignored in the end?
No.
Will your family still love you if you hate them?
Maybe — some do.
But even their forgiveness often carries a hope:
“Maybe this will fix us.”
“Maybe he’ll love us again.”
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And others say, “I will love myself, because I’m the only one who truly knows me.”
But even then — because still lingers.
We love ourselves because we are our final hope.
But… what if that self — our self — is not even there?
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This is not pessimism.
This is not written for pity, nor to seem pathetic.
Maybe we can’t change the fact that love is conditional.
Maybe love is a survival tool — something we use to feel whole in a broken reality.
And maybe — just maybe — unconditional love isn’t about appreciating imperfection.
Maybe unconditional is imperfection.
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Let this piece be a broken mirror:
Even with cracks, it still reflects.
And in the cracks, maybe…
we’re still whole.
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Note: Hi, I'm new here. The instructions didn't assign a specific genre, so I followed the call of my heart and penned this poetic monologue.
It is a reflection of longing, of hope, and of quiet philosophy — a mirror of myself, and perhaps, of some of us.
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