Ah, the curse of a breakup’s anniversary.
The time a human will reminisce
And revisit memories that were locked up in pandora’s box, commonly known as the subconscious.
Just when snapchat’s memories feature was about to lose its sting.
A moment that can be described as a hit from the ocean’s wave,
Filled with emotions that belonged to the past.
And the state of being currently wet from the salty water,
That refreshing feeling reminds you how the good times were… fulfilling, overwriting all the bad shit that went down,
But that saltiness fuels that regret of causing so much damage to him as you tried to heal yourself within your mind’s chaos.
Then the sun kindly dries you up, and its warmth hugs you all over,
Sending rays of reassurance and hope, that it’s okay to be alright, and that he’s better now.
We blame each other for our pain,
As if it is easy for us to hurt others.
As if it only takes an instant and/or complete loss of emotions.
As if it is within a human’s nature and default to break someone.
It’s not easy to cause pain.
Just as it is not easy to break a human being who is born to be resilient.
She understands the feelings of her students, because she does not expect greatness from them. She can never understand the feelings of her own daughters, because she will always want perfection.
If you demand to be heard,
Then perhaps you should listen first.
I definitely did not want you to stop.
I wanted you to whisper in my ear everything that you would have done if only we were a breath away.
And I definitely did not want to make it obvious for those sitting around me, as you drew dirty images in my mind,
But it was either that or the following Moan would have exposed both of us.
She would look into the direction of his neighborhood, as she drove past it, feeling
Sad. Or at least that “ah, yeah that one from that time”… and rather than feeling indifferent, being sad for a bit was the better option. I think.
I don’t know. It was some kind of internal theatrical conflict to give the years she was with him a bit of value, out of respect for Love.
How delicate should I be
for me to play on the strings of a spider’s web?
Will I be able to hear the sad harmony
played on these fine lines?
Or are the small creatures of this world
the only ones to enjoy the sweet melancholy
coming out from my worn-out and stained fingertips?
Will they unite
to listen to the stories
of a heart that barely survived?