179. Twists and turns, endless flights in this romance.

Grief. I am supposed to be able to feel for you, and reach out to hold you calm throughout the lonely time of your grieving? Can I not hinder and thrive upon your sadness as a victory of my own? It’s a funny thing how this second hand emotion could do to twist your feelings up, wring them down, and hang them out to bleed, all this heartfelt sympathy silenced and weighed down by the question of to be or not to be, to sympathize or to let it be.

Though I care greatly of what you feel, and even if you act like there wasn’t a thing in the world that could bother you, it causes you a immense deal of hurt. You don’t show, no, you hardly show anything. Feelings are such a safeguarded secret with you. Do I stay strong for you by helping you let it all out, or do I close up the situation as if it were another chapter of an unfinished book?

Mixed emotions, a whole torrent of sensation gushing through my bloodstreams, making it so hard to think. I don’t know what I can do; I don’t know who to talk to, or how to tell anyone what I mask. It’s the hard outer core, and again with that weird feeling that I know what I’m doing, what I’m feeling, is wrong, and yet I can’t even begin to think about stopping this rush simmering in my chest.

Do I like the feeling of being thrown into the throes and throngs of something out of the ordinary, or can I really say that I know this feeling, this indescribable moment that takes me back to when I was wild and young beyond all means? Is this because I’m in a rush to grow up, or because I know that I am not worth all the trouble, that makes me sink deeper and deeper into this inescapable hole?

I’m crashing hard, I swear. And who knows if when I reach rock bottom, there were only those who clung on to me throughout left to pick up the pieces. I want to hold onto something steadfast, that unwavering, unfaltering ease to pick up the phone and never stop talking till all the lines are dead, an untiring, indefatigable feeling to do it all over again by all means.

Thoughts weld up more and more, and I don’t think there’s enough space left in this head of mine to contain everything. I can feel them pressing up against my temples, rushing to be thought about all at once, and none at all. Inexorable? Never. I'm always tired, relentlessly ramming myself against a wall of concrete for at least something to keep the boredom away, to keep myself from thinking, from picking up and pressing the keys with my thumbs till they are numb.

I don't tell anyone, and nobody bothers to tell me why.


I’m crashing, unhurried and dawdling, because I'm not sure why I’m crashing for you.