Think the worst part of having eyes is seeing how much effort and time loved ones put into indulging and conversing with the ‘meaningless fillers of life’.
The past they keep present and filter through to a future which might not even be.
And you just settle for whatever morsel they throw your way.
Because that’s all you’ll get dear.
You care too much.
I just shut my eyes and find comfort in the fact that options, I have aplenty.
I just make a choice to lose by keeping myself in this spot.
There is genuinely nothing in this world I could lose I haven’t lost before.
This is me,
P.S The things that consume us are often our downfall. Please be kind to yourself.
I’m not going to be the girl you marry, but I’ll be the girl you’ll be thinking of 20 years from now while you engage in polite sex with your boring wife who fakes her orgasm to make you feel better about your receding hairline.
It is with such regret I write to you in these times of sadness. I’m not one to be drawn into the shadows but I’ve found myself cast right under the darkest wings of my thoughts.
Maybe my fondness for the diabolical has caught up with me.
Self righteousness amiss I feel like I’m bathing in the sins of my own and others and I dare shudder to think of the mess we have made of things.
I write to you because writing is all I have. Whether or not you recieve this correspondance is another matter of its own.
I yearn for you, dear friend. I wish nothing but the best in these circumstances but as of late I’m becoming aware of my reluctance to divulge in anything other than my sorrows.
My pain strips and tears at my eyes. I can feel the scratches and bearings of my efforts not to break down crumbling beneath my weakened foundations.
It is in this time and this time alone I will apologise for this sudden urge to write to you when the time is not ripe for either of us.
I have so many questions to ask.
But I will hold my curiosities and keep my anxieties at bay.
But friend, I will tell you this.
Things are not what they were.
I am a shell.
I do not dare go beyond that anymore.
Because dear friend, beyond there is more of what has already crept inside.
And I am scarred with battle.
I have betrayed myself.
And been betrayed.
Friend, if I may still call upon you as a person that dear to me, I wish not to worry you, or raise your concerns.
You have your own of which I more than understand.
But I must tell you, warn you even.
The sadness that consumes us.
The shadows that plague us.
Will always be brought by familiarity.
Keep well, dear one.
Love is just a thing we tell ourselves to sleep at night