matchsticks only go to waste when they are lit
and once they are lit their lives are slowly being smothered
just like humans
sometimes i write nice and sometimes i don't all depends on my head
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This is not a story
This is a collection of thoughts. This is a miscellany of hope.
Where everything ends and begins. A place to relish old memories and trash away old worries.
Opening a neoteric door while closing a decrepit one.
→ → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → → →
And as she walked away with her notebook tucked underneath her axilla, her head hung low and she tried to shroud herself into the crowd
It was only then I was beginning to realise that she was more than just the girl in the background.
← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ← ←
As he apprised those words to me, I picked my memo book and ambled off trying to hide away in the crowd, just so no one would see the tears spilling or hear my chafed thoughts
It was then reality hit me harder than anything that I was only the girl in the background.
