EXCERPT OF A BOOK I’LL NEVER WRITE

‘’ You wanna know the truth? “

“ Well, the fucked up truth is that not everything happens for a reason. Sometimes people make the wrong decisions and they’re forced to live with them for the rest of their lives. And I know I should live with mine and my parents should live with theirs because I mean what choice do we have? You can’t turn back the clocks and redo things. You make a mistake and you pay the price, that’s the cold hard truth about life.

You can’t change a decision you’ve already made, wrong or right. But on the loneliest nights, I look up at the moon and I smile. Because although now we walk different paths, with different people and although I know that years will pass and we still won’t be together just like the good old days.

I’ll always remember that for a brief, fraction of a moment, against all the odds, our stars crossed and I was born. And that will always, always be enough for me”

I DON’T KNOW IF I AM AT ALL

Often times I find myself repeating the same sentences to myself,

I am angry,

I deserve more than this,

This isn’t fair to me,

I am angry.

In the pretext of this situation, I must proclaim that I do not fully know how to explain myself, and for that reason nobody understands me. Or so I like to believe, to remind myself that I am still special in some way. Whatever way.

Often times I find myself repeating the same sentences. I am not too sure why I do this. I think it’s because everytime I have bothered to let someone into this weird head of mine- it’s lead to complete and absolute chaos. You do not fight darkness with darkness and you do not fight wolves with moonlight.

I hold on to the terrible things. It’s a bad habit, but it does not leave and I do not make it.

I do not know how communication works

Do I let the thoughts bleed out of me or do I shape them first? Do I apologise for their existence or do I snatch them back once released?

I cannot remember the last time I opened my mouth and meant what I said. I cannot remember the last time a conversation didn’t end with a ‘why’

This isn’t what I taught me I cannot go back to who I was and I cannot figure out who I want to be If there was a metaphor to describe what this is like, I think it would be

I’m a grenade asked to pass through the neck of a milk bottle

A wooden splinter caught between nail and skin

A bullet stuck mid-air

I waver between living and barely breathing

I don’t know if I am at all

Or if

I am,

hardly.

I THINK AND FEEL AND LOVE TOO MUCH

But my problem was never that I couldn’t love well enough, it was always the opposite. I would love too much. I suppose it’s strangely idealistic of me. But to love always meant to need. To not want to be alone anymore. I loved to kiss, I loved to kiss everywhere. I loved to hug and to hold ( I’m always here for free hugs and kisses ) I loved to write and be written to. I’d write to him every second of every day if i could. I’d tell him everything. About what I feel about the universe, the colour of the sky, the nails I paint, how my table creeks when I sit, how I fidget with a thing constantly when I’m sad, how much i thought of him.

It’s strange. But to love never meant to rest, it meant to keep trying. To keep working, to put all my energy into loving. I’d make a career of it, i’d call myself the best most passionate lover in the world. I’d make an industry of it if i could. All of us who loved too much could sit in a building and love. The building would begin to reek of roses and tears and laughter and paper and ink. We’d only have red and yellow lights, we’d have so many flowers and we’d have no curtains. In love, there is no hiding.

We’d leave the doors unlocked, we’d have no cubicles, we’d cook for each other and we’d clean each others’ back all the time.

I wish that loving wasn’t something looked down on, I wish to be obsessed didn’t automatically mean to be creepy, to not be ambitious, to not love yourself. It’s strange, but love is the only thing i’m good at. But the world has taught me that to love too much is something to be ashamed of. I’ve learnt that i’m supposed to keep myself distracted, as my mother says. That i’m supposed to do my internships and watch tv and pretend i don’t feel it. But i love a lot, i don’t tire of it. I’ve been hiding it a lot, but i can’t stop feeling it.

I think and feel too much. I love too much.

Why should i stop that?