Watching movies always makes me sad, even if it wasn't the overall thematic intent. I suppose the sorrow that seeds from it is the fact that, the world is beautiful, and that hurts me. I want to have a first class romance, with first class adventures, and quirky friends. But these thing s simply don't
exist.
I suppose they do in someones' reality, somewhere. And their books will end just fine, but mine. is a different story. The author has all but stopped writing, and simply dumped ink all over the page.
The thing about being used, is that you can't be, if you're aware of it happening.
stupid.
seven
stupid
months
And what am I doing? However pathetic I may be, I will at least admit to feeling. I am all but aware that at one point in time it was shared. Now I am simply an object. Was that not my original intent? I may say it how every many times, but I know deep down that it is not what I want. But I, too stubborn to ever admit will continue on in slight distaste of the dream I will never live.
I wonder what happens to forgotten dreams, do they wither and wilt? Rot like fruit in a panty. Flies grazing as they decay. Or do they stay, somewhere. Their shine long gone, like unpolished silver. Waiting for a day when it will be stumbled upon. Like forgotten heirlooms, accompanied with a faint recognition of distraught panic, of something inevitably lost, but not able
to
quite
remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment