My friends joke I have too many hobbies,
Small loves of chasing after umami delights,
The high of scaling new heights,
The tactile feel of poker chips and gambling thrills,
The rush of frosty winds on snowy hills,
The immersion into creative stories,
Open-world games filling my inventories,
Endless fascination with God’s vibrant landscapes,
And making frozen sour grapes.
My friends joke I have too many hobbies, but such little time. In this season, God was gracious in gifting me all this time. Yet, just as the time was given, it was quickly taken away.
I once had places, so many small spaces that I cherished and wanted to share with the people I love. And for a time, I did just that. But somewhere down the line, disappointment crept into those sacred spaces. What once began as a good thing became the very thing that sought to destroy me. Because it’s a different kind of hurt when they decide they would rather do the things you love with someone else.
This cruel reminder—the love I had given and the hobbies I shared, cruelly met by the love I was denied, should only be a distant memory. But this obsessive parasite has made its home under my skin, feeding on the memories of the ongoing betrayal with everyone else… especially her. Each stolen moment was given to her on a silver platter, and each clandestine rendezvous was a fresh dagger to my heart. A constant reminder of my worthlessness in the shallowness of their undevoted affection. The joy once found in one of my favourite hobbies began shifting into a dull, monochromatic hue.
It’s a different kind of hurt when you realise your company never meant much to them. How else could you explain why the one who claimed to love you found it so easy to do the things you enjoyed with someone else so regularly? To this day, any attempt to love what I once had—to sit in the room and pathetically try to enjoy that hobby is a constant reminder of the disregard. It was devaluing me and how I felt. And I felt it deeply.
If the pain was visible on my skin, it would manifest as second-degree burns. Painful and ugly. And even though the wounds may one day close up, the skin will never be the same. I imagine it to be unsightly and desecrated. The very essence of beauty, just gone. When the scars are tangible, it’s a lot easier to understand the distrust and hesitance.
A love once cherished is now reduced to a measly footnote in someone else’s story.
No matter how big my love for activities that stir excitement in my soul, the wound of every covert rendezvous—every unreciprocated request for shared time—has left ugly scars. But in my despair, I hope my fondness for my pursuits will never end. I hope those joys will remind me life is worth living and the low blows will not quell my passion. If I am to love those hobbies again, navigating my way through all the pain is the only way forward.
How foolish is it to think I let someone ruin my love for such things? I just hope that at the end of my journey, there is still something left for me—that I won’t have to keep grieving for how I was violated. I just want to enjoy the things I once loved without remembering it all. I don’t want to keep experiencing this different kind of hurt.
水 