Stories

Only I know my whole story. You can only gather bits and pieces I chose to or others decided to tell you. Each version has it's own different side. That's why they are stories. And you, can only dwell, if you are too bored, in what others told you and have an impression or judgement on me. But do I care?

Brigther Than Sunshine

"What a feeling in my soul
Love burns brighter than sunshine,
Brighter than sunshine.
Let the rain fall, I don't care
I'm yours, and suddenly you're mine
Suddenly, you're mine;
And it's brighter than sunshine..."

And so while it keeps playing over and over again, I have all these images of you and me. Me and you. You. Me. Us. Together. Happy us. Happily together. But very soon they turn blur and vanish. And all I can see is my fingers typing and the white screen with black tiny words appearing on the screen. While I type. Each. And. Every. Single. L.E.T.T.E.R. Fills the screen.

I'm unhappy. It took me about 1 minute to type, delete, type, delete again and type once again the word "unhappy". It sounds so harsh, almost  unreal. Well, it can't be real. How can I be UNHAPPY? It's such strong word... Doesn't really match me at all. But it's the truth. I AM UNHAPPY. About what? About now. My life. Me. I never used to be unhappy. All I can recall is I used to be upset because of something. Some incidents. Some people. Some situations. Some versions of me. But never unhappy. But is the word upset stronger, a lot more closer to the state of complete unhappiness? Or the word unhappy? Definitely the latter. Just typing the word makes me unhappier than ever. It's like pressing, pushing something down under the sands. Until you can't see it no more. And just the mess around it, over your fingers. Sands. And still, you'll pat the surface, really making it difficult for the thing to come out again.

Do I love him still? Yes. Why not? After all, he's the only man I ever said yes to when he proposed. ("Maybe it's because no one else ever did, that's why". Of course not. It's because he's the only man I wanted to be with. The rest never really mattered. Never really woke the fire in me to be tamed and be home with.). But thinking how things are constantly so complicated and annoying between us makes me really sick. Makes me want to run away. Run. Run. Run. Fly. But I can't. Because we have a daughter together. Forever. And I can't just disappear. Like I used to. Like I enjoyed. Like the old me. The old me. The old me. The old me. Dead now. Now this is me. This new me. This strange me. This one. This.

Part of me wants to be in his arms. Run to him. Jump to him. Kiss him. Lick. Bite. Suck his lips. Play with his tongue with mine. Grab his hair. Pull it while kissing his face. Over and over. Over and over. Again. Here. There. Ears. Neck. Jaw. Lips. Eyes. Face. Neck Again. Nose. Jaw. Lips. Over. And. Over. Again.

But part of me is tired. So tired. So weak. So fed up. And I guess he is tired too. Fed up too. Very extremely fed up.

If time could go back, I would.... I would what? I would... What? I don't know. You don't know? You don't know because you are afraid to say it. To admit it. Perhaps.

If time could go back, I would think more carefully. About what? About things. What things? Things. You mean about you and him, not things. Yes. Just so you both wouldn't get married so early, and get pregnant so early, argue so early. Just so you both could still act like kids together without worries, both fighting for your own respective dreams. Correct? Yes. But I wouldn't really change a thing. Would you not? Really? Seriously? Yes. Why? Because I love my daughter. She's happiness. She's everything. Are you saying this just to make you feel better? Pretending you really love her? No! of course I REALLY LOVE HER! No more than your husband though. Otherwise you wouldn't be unhappy.

I love her! As equally as I love my husband. But I care more for her because she's my daughter, she's little, she's my princess. She came from me. She's a bright little sweetheart. My sweetheart forever. Forever. And ever.

And so, in a very quiet way, I let him go. And so have I.

Tell Me

I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. I miss. Tremendously. Desperately. Hopelessly.
I love him. I love him. I love him. Loudly. Crazily. Endlessly.
My brain tells me to stop.
My heart urges me to go see him even if I get rejected again.
My brain tells me to give up. Let go. Start everything from scratch.
My heart tells me there's still hope, there's still love.
What do I tell myself then?
What does he tell me then?

Back To Black

Nothing goes smooth.
Nothing ever does.
Am I too negative?
Too unpleasing to everyone?
I'm starting to think
I shouldn't be here in the first place.

Call me a pessimist. Because that's all I am for today. Tomorrow. And so on.

You = Ungrateful

From now on I will unplug my "CARE-ABOUT-YOU-AND WORRIED-AS-HELL-WHEN-YOU-ARE-UNWELL" cable. So I will not feel any longer. So I will be able to sleep at night and rest properly BECAUSE I ALSO HAVE A FRIGGING JOB to go to in the MORNING!

Keep Quiet

People say a lot. A lot of words live with us. Touch us. Pass us by, every single day. And we linger on them, breathing the truth out of them. Sometimes we get it, sometimes we don't. And at others, we are simply not sure what they truly mean, how truthful they are. I can't remember where and when I saw: "silence is the most honest and truthful word". And I couldn't agree more. We tend to say so many already meaningless words to keep uncomfortable quietness away, to divert how we really feel, what we want to say but too scared and coward to say them, and we end up using words to beautify what's unbearable, to resurrect what's already dead, to delude those around us, even ourselves. Sometimes, those who are brave enough to accept what they truly feel, think and live by, those who respect you enough not to tell you any more rosy words, those who would rather not talk to you, not say a word to you, not to pronounce another deceiving spell, are those who tell you the truth, the most honest and sincere words.Words lie. But silence don't.