i.j.h

have you ever realised how inconsistently consistent we are? you fall out of love by 5pm and blame it on the insignificant arguments- the “you weren’t affectionate enough”, “you’re never around”, “are you flirting with her”... “no it was just amity—” 
          	but it’s not about that; you’re trying to find reason for the absence of excitement but don’t realise that it all ends- even the gushing kind of love, the “oh fuck, there goes my heart” kind of love. and before you know it, you’re chasing after the next, the spur that keeps on giving but less each time you catch it on it’s toes. that’s the sentiment of life, is not? trying to have it all, some sort of high and whatever fuck else gets you off, until you are too drained of any sort of notion. you no longer believe that you’re real, that you’re un-provokable. the concept of “i’m so authentic but she’s not, she’s hiding herself behind layers tucked in the crevices and cracks of last summer’s heartbreak; a plethora of enigma that i’ve sworn to untwine” until you understand that beneath it is nothing but a vapid void. we’re all less than what we make ourselves out to be.