Listen… I may be an author, but I don’t understand life. Maybe I get life in general… but my own is a mess I can’t figure out. I’m afraid I’m leaving someone behind and I’m afraid that what I feel… is not like I thought it would be. Maybe I’ve become too much of an author, the thing is I can describe death scenes in detail but I can’t describe my own emotions in order to make sense of them.
As I think of how broken the world is I am reminded how hard I’ve tried to fix it. I am a mere puzzle piece to other people’s puzzles and I may not even matter that much. Or maybe I’m the corner piece or that missing one…
I am just as self-absorbed as everyone else is. If I could read minds I’d not spend as much time trying to figure out my own all the time. I forget people… and I neglect people. But in life the only one I got at all times is myself. And I got hurt and I am trying to defend or protect myself and now I feel like I am just avoiding the darkness that could be brighter if I dared to shed a light on it. And I don’t want you to be my darkness but you kind of were. But you were an exciting darkness, an experience of emotions I thought I didn’t have anymore.
The thing is that I want that chapter to be over. If I go back will it just be a continuation or will it be a new one?
Such a big problem in my tiny existence. Am I a big puzzle piece in your life? Or just another one?
I don’t really trust people when it comes to this. And as you’ve said it is obvious why. God I wish I could be more naive, but as an author I plan ahead and I know which situation leads to what. Or I think I know.
I don’t know anything. I just realized that. I really don’t know. So please don’t expect anything from me.