When the moon hangs low and reaches it's full roundness the memories return. The darkness masks their importance as if the dark shroud could hide the truth
...I miss you.
I guess I'm still broken hearted. I guess I still love you. I guess I can't let you go. But do I? Or do I miss the idea of you more? Or maybe, as I often do,I have created an image, a love so out of this world and larger than life that it never really was. That the reality will always pale in comparison....
Tomorrow I turn 25, a quarter of a century lived and still I feel as though I've not accomplished much of anything. It's funny isn't it? How we go about our lives systematically as if the motions and movements make it all real. There are times on my morning commute where I feel as though I am living in some sort of movie and one day the director will yell "CUT" and I will finally see that none of this and none of that is real. Or maybe that's what I'm hoping for, a re-do, a time out, a let's try that again shall we?
But alas this is my life and it's a good life, a great life, a crazy surreal one even.
This what I feel for ____ is not love. It is love masking in my need to feel a connection, to feel alive, to feel anything. I find myself creating an elaborate story of how this, whatever it is, is real. But the truth is that it isn't. ____ gives into me because I push ____ to. I choose to like ____ because I know it is doomed to fail. Because the truth is that I am afraid to really let go, to really allow the cement walls protecting my heart to crumble. I am afraid of feeling worthy of love....
