It's not worth it.
A restless day. Blusters, clusters of cacophonous voices. Papers scattered on the ground, but no one is there to pick them up.
Garish colors, white noise. Somehow I find a way to fit myself into this mess. Assimilating to what is not me, words choked up and forcefully replaced with continuous white lies.
It's a blur.
One day, my normally rhythmic heart begins to beat in erratic, random intervals. Whenever I see you, whenever I'm near you.
I know what this feeling is. Too well, but I don't want to acknowledge it.
So I won't.
But the ear-piercing drumming of my heart insists that I have to. Why?
Do I just love putting myself in love? Is it fun for myself to break my heart, bit by bit, until all that remains is an unrecognizable carcass?
Who knows, maybe I do after all.
So I pine.
I pine relentlessly. For you; who will never know me, who will never see me.
You; who I'll never know, who I'll never see. I agonize myself further, lying to myself- saying I'm alright with it. But I'm not.
There's no point.
But I like you so much.
There's no point.
But you are all I think of.
There's no point.
There's no point in liking a person whose future will never include you. So why is my heart aching so much?
It's because I like you. And I hate you because of that.
It's because I know all of these noticed feelings will never amount to anything.
