endings are superb

i've spent two and a half hours working on something for you. something that i might not even give you when i'm done. it's not done yet, it may never be done. unlike us, which is most definately done. overcooked. burnt. in the trash. and then i remember i bought you that card and i thought when i bought it that it was made for only us. no one else really likes squirrels, right? i wish i had sent it on time, so it wouldn't be awkward sending you an "i love you" way too late. oh well. that's how i work. everything weeks late. postponed love. now it's gone and i still want you to have it. the card. at least. something to remind you that i cared. i guess you deserve that much.

when you first started making me happy, i wondered what would happen to my writing. i knew that my best stuff came out of misery. there's something to be said about being miserable. it's inspiring and you can look at the world and it's your enemy. everyone is your foe. you are my foe. i didn't stop writing when i had you, it was just less interesting. now that i don't have anyone again. it doesn't feel lonely, it just feels right. i'm just suited for a life for one. i'm fine with that, really. oh wait, is that sarcasm? i can't even tell these days when i'm being sincere. the counter-arguments don't seem to stop. for every reason i can think to still love you, i find another one that makes me hate you even more. i can't help it. i'm a pessimist. we both knew this.

it's morbid how comfortable i feel. i'm an emo-masochist.
 
¶ 1:06 AM |