If you have known me for long enough, then you would know, that the quality and quantity of my writing increases drastically when I am left aside, to chew upon myself, after having spend almost all of my time pouring my emotions into one single person.
To see so much words, pages after pages of once traceless papers, inked with the handwriting that gives body to my thoughts, is often not a joy. Like I said, if you have known me for long enough, you would know why I stain the finely processed skin of dead trees with ink. I frown when I see the stacks of newly written thoughts. Albeit so, focusing solely on what I want to write is happiness. It is a sweet escape for me, that brings me closest to heaven.
You know, my friend, how lonely I can get. You know, the worst is when I am unable to sleep at night even after replacing the cap on my pen, finishing tens of pages of what I thought would satisfy a void in the chest. Frankly, words would never suffice. That is the sad truth I have come to realize over the years. But I don't mind; it doesn't matter-- that's what I tell myself, anyway.
It's why you are even able to fix your eyes on this right now. My thirst for solace. In the night when I have had enough of sitting at my desk, scribbling away, I come here, in hopes that I will ultimately write enough to admit to myself the naked truth that I don't want to accept. It's not hard for me to say it, because I already acknowledge it, that I am in fact happy. That's just what I want myself to think, of course.
Beneath this plaster mould of a loner, somewhere deep within my soul, I feel a mourning a cry. A knife, a thin one, with a blade long and slender, is being pushed deep into my heart. It goes in with ease, as the pink tissues have no intention of pushing the blade away. The malevolent shadow that is torquing the knife ever so slowly is a sadist indeed. What are you trying to get out of me?
I will admit that it hurts, but I won't scream. I can't. My voice, has been taken away from me. The only telltale fragility that is capable of giving me away, is lost, somewhere in this pool of pride that unknowingly, I have pledged to.
At the end of the day, it's still about doing the right thing. In Counting Stars, Ryan sings: I feel something so wrong, doing the right thing...
I feel wrong.
But, who am I to tear apart two people who have lived their whole lives alongside each other? Even if it would certainly satisfy my unreasonably selfish yearnings, it's not worth it.
Aside from all of that, I failed my driving test and the aftertaste of this afternoon still burns at the back of my tongue. The wait, the anxiety, and how I actually failed everything that I could possibly fail... It's making me sick, and yes, I want to cry. And yes, I am thinking: "Fuck driving. I will cycle for the rest of my life"