Nowadays, I am a particularly content person.
I write, I study, I watch, I socialise (but only on Wednesdays)
and I am alone.
I have officially finished with the nasty business of a relationship, in fact, I don't think I'm relationship material at all.
All in all, I'm okay with where I am in life.
But at night,
I have to close my bedroom door.
I have to close it as soon as I turn out the lights, so the ghosts of my past regrets don't come sneaking in and come creeping into my head while I sleep.
I must keep them out of me, it's not my fault you see.
I tried so hard to help them all but I'm not as strong as I seem.
I accept my life of sin and solitude.
I'm happy this way, honestly, it's the truth.
You have to believe me, you must.
Recently, I've been questioning why I'm happy and I think it's because I'm not used to being happy that I'm refusing to allow myself to really endorse the feeling. Either that or I'm only pretending to be happy