It’s Monday again tomorrow, I still have work, and I should be sleeping. But, as always, there’s something about writing that you can’t put on hold. I have to let things out, let the words flow, until I am able to empty my mind from all the thoughts. So, as usual, I sacrifice a few (okay, not just few) minutes of my sleep to fill this page, simultaneously draining myself — draining in probably all its senses.
I have no idea what you’d make of my emotional outburst last night. Because it was what it was, and what it still is — just my hormones racing, the music, and all the other things I’ve mentioned affecting my brain, giving me the impetus to say what I would have bottled in. Again, don’t let it get to you. I’m just extracting what little it is that remains. The affection, I mean. Or maybe not even affection. Just recollection.
Trust me when I say I’m okay. I woke up today with someone else on mind. I blame my dreams for this — planting seeds in my mind when I should know better that this is downright impossible (and also, something I’m avoiding). You’re a thing of the past that stretched out till now, like the pigment that stained the brush. The paint isn’t washed off completely despite the many times I rinsed and cleaned it. It’s covered up with some new color I decide to use, and then, the old one’s completely gone.
You are the last strokes I make before I dip my brush to a new paint, the last words before a new page, the last chords that closes my song.