13 март, 2017

broken and made

So what if the books I read make me a hopeless romantic? I've always wanted a fairy tale and weirdly enough have always tried to make it look like one. My story, remember. All of it, with every decision there for a reason, even if the reason is that I'm stupid and haven't learned my lessons yet. 
I wrote it down. I write here, in the notebook, in the other notebook. I talk about it, I write about it until it's all out in the open, until it no longer has any effect on me. I'm having my overdose until I get sick of it and decide that I've had enough for good. That story goes backwards with you saying that you should have tried harder when the time was right. When I'm over it, which will take me a while, that's when you'll decide you want it. You want me. It's the irony that follows my life. Weirdly enough, I learned the lesson. I want better, thanks to reading books. I want it all, body and soul. I want it to be worth the effort and well, the time. Because I've wasted a lot of time chasing people, then their ghosts. I might as well start buying cats and dogs already. Instead the idea of moving seems more and more compelling and I might as well give in to it. Otherwise I'm still sidelined but way better. Going back to work will be the hardest task yet. Being on my own will be even harder but I'm willing to do my best as usual. 
Things will start to change pretty soon. I can feel it. It's supposed to get better for a change or I'll make it so anyway. The world and everything in it. Suddenly I matter again. I'm strong enough and I'm worth it, without having to explain or prove it anymore. 

Няма коментари: