Kombucha-drunk Love

She could sense a palpable tension in my messages, like she knew that I was going to give up on her. Only recently have I learned not to burn bridges along the way. I certainly did not want to burn this one, but eventually I will have to deal with it one way or the other; it is inevitable. Trying not to let go of something that could potentially be a needle in a haystack seems so much of a waste of meaning that you cling to it hoping that what once was a paradisiacal possibility would turn out to be a potentially disastrous recipe for another paradisiacal possibility. I merely chose the one I felt in tune with the most. But now that the cat is in the bag, my hopes are that the cat remains in a catatonic state of both alive and dead, of me not knowing until the need for it arises once again. It seems to me like I have burned way too many bridges in the past for me to start now, and finally I have reached a point of transcendent realisation: do what is best for me. So I chose the best option, and now I am fucked by the consequences, or will be fucked by it, or will be fucked and still have options, or not. Suppose I will know soon enough.

If I am to be rejected by the best option I have, could my rejection of the consolation be any better if I do decide to finally choose it?