Drinking Coffee, Walking Wounded

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We were three girls in a coffee shop discussing a range of topics from falling in love with priests to how to unlearn the fear of love and finally to moving on after a messy cancelled wedding.

Sitting there, the differences amongst us were glaring.

One was self-admittedly stubborn, holding on to a hope that might damage her internally and threaten a vocation badly needed by the Church.

One was fiercely determined to redeem her self-respect after being jilted a few months before their wedding.

One was just plain scared to fall in love again, a process she calls disgustingly inane now, after having given 100% the first time and being fundamentally wrong about her assumptions.

But we were pretty much three sides of a singular pyramid, going through what I can only call the muck that love is.

One would never admit she's stuck in a moot point, her heart utterly lost in the recesses of the deep well of confusion of a struggling-to-be pious priest.

One would never admit she still feels for the former fiance, even if it only were feelings that manifest itselfs in her tears and in her anger, and that it might not be the right time to enter another relationship.

And the one terrified of giving herself a chance to find true love because of her fear of rejection--- she would never admit that she's never felt lonelier, uglier and more unlovable as she does now. Not to mention stupider.

We're the walking wounded. Sh_t happens and we happen.

How many of us exists, I wonder?

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