24 януари, 2017

kryptonite

Maybe there is hope for me somewhere. At least that's what I'm choosing to believe for now. Until the world decided to fuck me up some more that is. Or maybe I will kick its behind and not get fucked up. Well, more than I already am.
I know I said writing was pretty done with me, but some stories keep living inside my head and are begging me to finish them. Maybe I will give it a try still I'm still housebound and can't give into photography and other stuff. At some point I think I read too much epic books and figured that anything I have to say, someone has already said it, and in a much better way. But then again I did make my English teacher cry with one of my short stories. Maybe there is still hope for me there. Also, I was given the idea of trying to go abroad, which had I not been the crazy person I am (not in the good way), I would have been dying to do. I still consider it sometimes but decide that it would be too much of an effort and well, I lack the sanity for it. 
Damn, you have no idea what it means to me that we talk more now. I love being the person you tell when you had a great day. Or even a bad day, so I can try to make it better. So what if I'm not the love of your life? Though that is not certain yet. I am somebody's. But until he shows up... I'm all yours. 
Or I guess until I decide to give up the innocent act, get better and relive the first half of last year. I'd very much like to do so if I can. If I can't have what I want most, the second best thing would be this. Plus there is some irony in having the illusion of something instead of the thing itself. It's what I usually get. Always this close and never quite close enough. I can't wait for the day when that turns around and I have it all and I am the one. The last one that is. 
Gossip girl is turning me into a romantic idiot and oh, February is too close. I may not be... But maybe someday I will. Until then I will have all the inspiration I want. Art comes from sadness right. If only it wasn't so hard to write about the things that make you sad. Because writing it down makes it real and usually makes you realize that things are over. And they are not yet, not for me anyway. Even if I will never be her... Insert irony for this seems to be the story of my life. 

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