I’m usually an honest human being, that’s given. Except that I do lie to myself a lot. At the moment, I’m convincing myself that the saxophone is just sexy hence I’m repeatedly playing… Continue reading
I want to have time for you but we both know how impossible that is. — Me to writing. — Me to you.
I would only be at peace if I know you are extremely happy — the type that you can’t compare to ours. Why? Because I’m not the bitter person to be angry or jealous of some new girl when I know she’s the one meant for you.
I don’t really care if she loves you less, I just hope she loves you right.
Thing is, no matter how many times I write about this, it’s not going to wear off. I know for a fact that I’ve been denying and resisting what happened in the past. Gravity tells me to just reconnect but I won’t. It’s futile to fight gravity, I know that. I also know that if I would be stupid and just follow my guts and not even think about it for a brief moment, I would have responded to your stupid messages. The only reason I won’t is because I’m saving myself. How frustrating is it to know you can love someone but not let yourself do so because you know it’s not going to work?
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.
I have told myself again and again that I am desensitized. I’m not. Who am I kidding? My brain resorts to you when there’s nothing else to think about. It’s your absence in my life that I have realized I still am, perhaps after all this time, into you.
The truth is, I’m scared. I’m scared of what tomorrow would bring. I’m scared of the unknown and of the unexpected. I’m scared because I feel lifeless and I no longer have the drive as strong as that of when there was still fire.
I am in search for the spark that would keep me going.
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.