Before night fall, before I nod off to sleep- I am the worst of all the things that have always bothered me.
The devil of all the worst to keep.
The stories and what they meant- behind the pen and words to describe them so patiently.
Without purpose, and of no direction to speak. I paint them in a line dividing my mind and my reality.
Of these things I've hoped to have accomplished but have failed and how if you've succeeded then it bitterly depresses me:
So, dark streets with no lighting but for the car. A long drive seemed fairly uninteresting. All thoughts about the girl sitting next to me.
And how she stays quiet for a while before she starts to talk about the things she seems to thinks we need.
And in that moment I can sense it- a destiny. Not for the rest of our lives but for the hint of self discovery.
All the fallacies we believe, can they start crumbling?
It's short lived, the quickly dissolving feeling of warmth. The lines falter between the physical desire for lust now and the need for love more than anything.
And if I missed out on both was it fear of further failure or the consequences of love that's been shattered?
I never wanted to get left behind. And so I treacherously denied myself the feeling of hope and watched it all slip by.
Without hesitation, no doubt of anything at all, I pushed on to try and find meaning. No meaning. We just expose all the carnal parts. To try and find healing in the arms of those we hope to know.
I want to experience love without doubt, without wondering if there went something wrong. I want to bury the ghosts and put them deep in the ground. And I fear the dangers of my fears that have been overwhelming me. I want to know why I fear to love the most out of everything. I think it's a shame that I just can't seem to get over you.
Why am I so scared?
I see her blank stares. As she tries to read me. Tries to understand. But it's not dreams or fairy tale land. I'm being haunted by the past and all the broken glass used to cut skin and write out the names of sins.
So was it ever half as much as it seems to me? Or is it just a gentle whisper of what I had thought it had been?
Just us grasping to nothing and holding on tight to the ropes in the hopes of something glorious happening when we sense those feelings we so long to forget.
And so all we know is regret, and I am afraid to admit that I might be ashamed to be feeling. So I try not to feel anything at all, and so I let you leave and you forget and you forget and you forget what we were close to feeling anyway.
