I have sold my soul for long enough to still be naive and think that a soulmate exists for me alone. I don't know where the greatest treachery has been committed against. To me, who was given a life only to be cornered enough to sell what little soul she has or to the other half, who, god forbid may I never find, who has long lost a soulmate to seek.
xxx
The best thing about me is that I never give people the power to hurt me, the power to trigger emotions I do not like -- jealousy, range, insecurity. The problem, however, is that my go-to coping mechanism is self destruction. Vices, procrastination, self-loathe. The most intricate, consuming, and hurtful of all the self-destruction I have ever did to myself was continuing to love someone I've long let go of.
Hence, here I am once again.
The last time I wrote here was spring, 4 years ago. I find it repulsive at the same time funny, that when all else fails in life I can hear my heart screaming "write, you spineless coward, write it all out. Let it go, let it flow and don't let a single thing define you, you've lived and you've struggled far too long to be dependent on other people's validation to tell who you are. So write!" And Sad Women is the first one I saw, and I just want to write anywhere. So, I'll be letting go of my own inhibitions, of any formats and formalities. I am nothing but a museum of all the things I used to love and all the people I no longer am.
I am but a requiem of all the versions of me I have left to die and all the people I mourn for.
I find no point in restructuring my pain.
Twilight is my love and my grief. My pain and my anger. My denial, my despair and my bargaining.
For what? Who knows. We're all a little lost here are we not?
PS. Credits to the creator from Pinterest for the cover photo.
