You were dressed in white.
And I swear, at that moment, I knew you were going to be the death of me.
Romanticism was dead, but I wanted to tell myself that I could believe in something more than the emptiness of our liberal lives.
You scared me because your light blinded the void.
Yet, I loved the contradiction in your very being– how you never claimed perfection despite the clearness that was in you. You never claimed a higher moral ground. I liked that. I think morality is an illusion. I loved how salvation didn’t mean anything to you.
I couldn’t save you if I wanted to.
I don’t know how to save myself.
The answer isn’t love, love.
It’s okay to hate yourself. I’ve come to realize this after a while of living– it helps you deal when others begin to do the same.
I write pretty words to make people think that I have pretty thoughts.
I just want to get through the day.
Do dark eyes shine in bright lights?
June 23, 2017
You used to like waiting in traffic. Street lights at 11 pm were peaceful. Time passed a bit slower. You could see moving blocks of people– slowly moving blocks of lives. It was quiet. Tranquil.
Now, just weeks after, the silence is too much. You see other people living when you’ve stopped. You are forced to think, make decisions, play the games of your mind and heart’s conspirations. And you wonder if things could be simpler. You wonder if you are the same person in the same body living the same life you once knew. You see all the places you could be going, all the lives you could be living. The car’s now too small for comfort. The peace suffocates you.
But in the pm night lights, you come to terms to all the possibilities that you’ve stopped being a part of.
You once told me that love fucked you over.
I was silent for a minute. Then I told you that I’ve always liked listening because it was the only way to silence all the other voices I heard.
You said that if I was smart I wouldn’t want to listen.
I said that I’ve never been very good at being smart.
You barely smiled.
I didn’t care if you were broken.
You looked me and told me that’s what they all said.
You told me that’s what they all said too.
I looked into your eyes.
You looked back into mine.
I liked the sound of your silence.
You said you liked the sound of my silence.
It was the first summer night that I consciously acknowledged.
I am aware of every detail that I do not need to know.
I am focusing on all the wrong things. I can see, but do I really see? I need to see all of you right now, but the only image in my mind is the thought of how I should remember you when this is over. I fake a laugh to look unfazed by everything around me that is coming into sight too fast, too quickly– the recollection of you, of us, of world soon without you, of Insecurity’s eyes staring back into mine. The sky clears. And for a second I let myself think that maybe one day we’ll look back to this moment (and realize what we could have been).