There's a narcisism here, isn't there? With us, spilling our lives as if they're worth the five minutes out of someone's day. Honestly, I don't remember how to write anymore (not that I ever really knew how). My mind doesn't string the words together right; they always feel misplaced. Mismatched? The paragraphs are uncohesive. Incohesive? (Incoherent.) Isn't there an app that tells you when words don't exist. God.
xx
Time felt strange today, like someone moved all our furniture two centimeters to the left and I knew something was amiss but not exactly what it was. We had coffee alone, which hasn't happened in six months, probably more. I wanted to ask so badly if he was dating _, but was afraid of what caring would mean. I wanted to ask about his progress with _, but it really didn't seem like any of my business. I didn't want to cross the bridge I had tried so hard to subtley (and sometimes not so subtley) burn, but sometimes the body forgets and the brain is preoccupied, and the smoke of then and now drift into each other reality gets hazy lines are blurred. I've forgotten how to do things. I'm sorry.
What does it mean when people "stay friends"? Is it grace or cowardice? Is it only because it would be worse to be bitter? To be those people who are so scarred they are moved to silence? I miss being comfortable which is selfish, I know.
All the roses have died, black and ochre, torn and buried somewhere far away. I never thought I deserved them then. Perhaps dead, I deserve them now. This is a color I am used to.
Why am I being so melodramatic,
right.
Why am I being so melodramatic,
right.
Get over yourself: friendly service reminder from me to me.
xx
On the writing front, I am working on something but it's really raw at the moment, I can't even post it with a disclaimer. Will post soon, maybe.
I should get back to work.
