162. We're the new faced of failures, prettier and younger but not any better off.

I’m staring, lost for words. Why do I keep bleeding myself dry for you? Getting up to let you have the sadistic, cruel bliss of battering my down again. I don’t stand up for myself, don’t stand up for anyone else I could imagine except you.

I don’t know why you’re the exception, or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because you are so remarkably unparallel to anyone I know of, so much till even my judgment is shrouded in the clouds. I have no more words to say to you, nothing left of me to give, because everything I have you have taken and destroyed and pounded into nothing more than pulp of sand in the desert.

You admit to how much you are ignorant to feeling, how you can exclude yourself from people and still remain covered and veiled by the very ones you were avoiding. How can someone who'd rather secludes himself from the world still remain cherished and unharmed by godly hands?

Sometimes, I doubt I’m thinking clearly. I don’t think you exist, a figment of my imagination, a fabrication of my thoughts. Nothing can be created to be so invulnerable to all emotion, the only thing made to make us cower away and hide.

So I am asking you, are you real or are you just a part of me I want to be? I’m confused and lost in my train of thought, in my sea of dreams. I’m just waiting for a shadow on the ripple in the surface, a stretched out hand to bring me out of the ecstasy of the ocean.