February 14th.

Today is a strange day.

Everyone has a different opinion. It goes by different names. Galentine’s Day, for the empowered single women, neglected and scorned. Singles Awareness Day, for the humorously bitter, compensating for what they lack with fruitless rebellion and secretly hoping to return this day to its flowery, lovestruck place. And then there is its given name– Valentine’s Day, a day of permission for lovers to shed shame for open, public affection and controlled suppression for outrageous demonstrations of love.

Valentine’s Day is a constant. It may be a lot of things to a lot of people, but it has always remained faithful to me. It shows up once a year, showing off with its floating heart balloons and rich chocolate assortments. It finds rest in cozy couples and teases the unattached. It pokes and prods, aching to get a reaction. It wants loneliness, bitterness, heartache. It longs to see proud men torn down by petty emotions and strong hearts made weak with wanting.

It takes what you give it. And I, for one, choose to withhold.

Valentine’s Day has no real power. It is neither good nor bad, painful nor treasured. For me it has always been just a day, one that I have enjoyed (and will continue to enjoy) with good company and a grateful heart.

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About Booki
"Somewhere man must know that self-perception is the most frightening of all human observations. He must know that when a man faces himself, he is looking into an abyss."

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