Tuesday, December 09, 2008
a tangle.
I look at you sometimes, be it with eyes or mind, and hear the undertones of longing. It stretches too far both behind and ahead, with bicoloured markings of handprints, that creates fettered chains in its quest for an imagined freedom. This I know, despite it not being seen for what it is, apart from fragile and contrived vivacity. It's either you or me - that you don't understand it had never been my place, or that I don't understand that I had been wrong all along. Somehow, I don't think it's the latter, so I don't do enough by your standards, but in being responsible towards myself (your description would be 'selfish'), I feel, or am made to feel, as if I have let you down - again, again, and again. Having come to an impasse, I suppose there is nothing more to say, except that I am not the person who you think I am, nor am I the person who I thought I had always been.
she procrastinated @ 12:50 |
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