Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
"it's just...when i'm with you, I become so insignificant. I feel like just this massive pile of disgusting that can't escape the knowledge of its identity. You leave your words at the doorstep of my psychotic imagination and he pushes them around until they get lost in my bloodstream and singe every inch until i'm made of burns on the inside. And I know you don't mean to do it. You're not that type of person."
"Well, I must be some awful person in your eyes if that's how you feel."
"No, it's just-", a sigh,"I never know what it is that you're thinking. And that makes this whole trust thing difficult."
"I'm ...sorry you feel that way."
"What does that even mean?"
"Well what do you want me to say? I'm sorry for being a cold-hearted bitch, okay?"
"That's not what I'm saying."
"But that's what you mean isn't it? I can't do a thing about how you interpret me. I told you before, I'm not an emtional person. You know me. You have for more than a year now. Everything I think and feel, you've known about. If that's not enough for you, then why are you still with me?"
That question is never the start of anything good. Things may end better off, and maybe a breakup is the right thing to do. But it's never good. This is the question where you start considering what it's like to be single again and suddenly you recall all of the lopsided memories you have. 'You were lonely? No way. It was too much fun to be lonely. And what is this mess I've gotten into and can I call it off just like that? Is it really that easy?'
It takes a sane mind to realize that time is a soil where good memories grow and bad ones lie dormant. That it really is that easy to walk away, but it's a long and painful walk home. You don't want it to end here, not with this question.
But unfortunately there is no good response to this question, therefore I can't end the story properly.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
You can tell he's from the 60s. Playing just like my dad used to play. With every string singing about the sun of greenwich village or the dry night air of Barcelona. And you couldnt tell which he'd lived in all his life.