There will always be that hole, that opening, that weakness pulls though. You doubt yourself once and the hole gets bigger, until it engulfs you. You don't trust yourself. Everything you worked for, your accomplishments, dreams, everything goes through that black hole. Never to be seen again, you give them up. Sometimes you shouldn't give up. She shouldn't have. But what choice was there? Your whole life you are forced to be something, to live the model of society. But who decides what is right or wrong? There are certain morals that you have to uphold, that surpassed through the generations, and other that go in and out of fashion. Certain labels that you are given, doctors, lawyers, buisnessmen: succeeded. Nurses, teachers, accountants: could do better. Mothers, wives, clerks, cooks: failures. Of course no one will tell you this to your face. It's what they think inside thier minds that is deadly. They disregard you, know how far they can push you. Just like you would treat a person that is dying. You know he is dying, and suddenly he's already gone. The glances, the stares. They just want to live the rest of their days as normally as possible. But they don't. They die thinking of how people treated them before. How kind, yet unkind they were. But labels can be misleading. Who knew that the doctor that saved your life was high on narcotics? Or the nurse that treated you today was getting over a major hangover? How would you know if the president was making rash decision while being under the influence of something? No one knows. And if they do find out, suddenly your treated differently. They avoid you at all costs, but will not say anything to your face. They lie.
The world is a lie. Nothing has ever been truth. From the first day babies are born, their parents cannot hold in their joy, and their hopes for them. Yet those hopes are false ones, they have no clue what's going to come out of their handsome boy or gorgeous girl. They struggle within themselves to overcome these fears, and end up lying to themselves. Lying to the child. You can be anything you want to be. No you can't. Sometimes families are so poor, they can barely put food on the table, much less support a child through college. Or even high school. The sky is the limit. Another lie. What if you can't make it because its not in you? Some people are just not meant to be lawyers, or doctors. Some people do not have it in them, no matter how much they try. Because they can't care. They are self-centered and selfish. People can be so selfish sometimes. Selfishness isn't a bad trait. It secures that you might get what you want, but other times it can cause so much heartbreak. You have to think about someone else for a change. Someone that might be screaming for you to stay, to come back and to talk. Of course he had a good reason not to. Who would want a person that is so screwed up, who cannot keep her own life together for a few days? She plays with the glass in her hand, tempting her in to the sweet taste of forgotten dreams. She hasn't taken a sip. Whether its willingness not to, or a sudden force pushing her to. The liquid twists around and around, like a whirpool of blood. A mixture of blood and water going down that kitchen sink, finding a way to ease the hurt. Everyone has their own way of dealing. Some take a more physical route. Others dwell in their own self misery. She was one of those others. Not purposely, not by choice. What would happen if she burdened someone? She would become one of those people that is looked down upon. The thoughts running through different heads. No, silence is virtue. Silence is murder. Wasn't that the beginning of the end? Silence? You can never talk enough. There is no possible way. It doesn't necessarily mean that what is being said is meaningful. But it's being said. Once the talking stops, even if its for a second, the coming apart begins. Both realize there is nothing left to talk about, nothing to laugh about, nothing. But its not true. There is always something. It just needs time to come out. And the longer the silence continues, the more time you have to push away. Time. Time can destory or rebuild. Once a second passes, it passes forever. Yet what if you go back to a country, on a trip, and you gain eight hours? Does that count? Is that time travel? No. You lived your moment. You can never go back and undo what you've done. It's permanent, like a scar. There will always be that faded skin, that place of delicacy on your perfect flesh. Doesn't matter if its from a fall at age ten or a stab wound at age twenty nine. It's still there. A permanent reminder of one time you screwed up and did something. Even if it was an accident. If wasn't your fault. You still look at it and blame yourself. She places the glass on the table, a high pitch echo going through the apartment as if in a cave. A dark, deserted cave with pitch blackness and nothing else. You have to follow your instincts, as bad and worn out as they may be. As in life. She shouldn't have pushed him away. The echo of the glass against the table like the sound of his keys falling into the dish.
Falling. That's all that happens from the first day you step out into the world. You fall, and no one is there to catch you, to help you. You are on your own. Until may find someone who will hold you, they won't necessarily help you up, but they won't let you hit bottom. Sometimes they come into lives in secret. And when its all said and done, you finally figure out, you're back into that constant decent into hell, by yourself. She's by herself. She let him fall. Her head eases its way into her hands. It's heavy with sleepless nights, and overworked days. Yet the days had always been overworked, and the nights restful, pleasent, warm. A vauge memory that now faded away. All memories fade with time. Maybe these will too. It is clear for a while, then it disappears, and as you near your hour of death, everything that happened goes flooding back. Missed oppurtunities, one more I love you that could have been said. One I love you at all.
Words mean nothing, emotions and feeling everything. How easy is it for someone to say I love you and not mean it? Words aren't always everything. You can feel more in a second, than with a lifetime of words. Words were made up, different languages, not sharing common ground. So why should words be so important? Because they let you into the mind of someone else. And when those words are gone. They are forever erased. But they should have been said. She should have told him. She should have told him the truth. The truth is never as easy as it seems. It can be hidden and covered up and twisted in so many ways. But the honest truth. It takes courage that is impossible to find. Unless you find it in yourself. She doesn't know who she is anymore. Lost. The world is lost. Never knowing where the next turn is going to be, where you are going to find yourself. Turn of events, surprises, a single shot, a split second decision, a turn. It's over. You can't plan your life out. You never know when its going to end. And those words that you had wanted to say never come out, those plans you had in the back of your mind go under with you. Regrets that never cease. Stupid regrets. Three simple words could have changed the whole stretch of time. Yet they will never come out. Neither will her tears. Both being held back by force, a sign of weakness, of humanity. No. Never cry over a loss. It's her own fault she lost him. She should start blaming herself. Not crying. It will do no good now anyway. Crying never does any good. You only cry after something happens. The purest example of human instability. A sigh escapes her, tears still welding in her dark brown eyes. She retreats from the sofa, more memories flooding back to her. She's close to hitting rock bottom. Hard. Painfully hard. She'll never have another chance. She treads her way back to the window, the glass being picked up as she goes. Her reflection stares back at her. Hate. Abhorrence. Abomination. Anathema. Antipathy. Detestation. Disgust. Loathing. Repulsion. Resentment. Revulsion. Scorn. Hate. Hate for the person starring back at her. Hate for what she had done, who she had become. Who she will never be. She takes the wine, spinning it again. She sips it, letting the taste linger on her lips for a second. She takes it, swollowing the fire, whole. No need to sense it, just feel the aftermath. The letting go of the world for that one moment. She looks back at herself. A mistake. She was a mistake. She shouldn't have been born. She places the glass down silently on the ledge, it can wait until morning. Another look out the window, at the lonely and empty streets below.
"I love you, John."
Her voice cracks and breaks. The lamp goes off and she makes her way to the bedroom. Tomorrow is another day, but tomorrow isn't always better than yesterday. The only sound that echoes through the apartment is the sound of the clock ticking, letting her know of more lost causes and wasted dreams. He's gone. She lost him forever.
The world is a lie. Nothing has ever been truth. From the first day babies are born, their parents cannot hold in their joy, and their hopes for them. Yet those hopes are false ones, they have no clue what's going to come out of their handsome boy or gorgeous girl. They struggle within themselves to overcome these fears, and end up lying to themselves. Lying to the child. You can be anything you want to be. No you can't. Sometimes families are so poor, they can barely put food on the table, much less support a child through college. Or even high school. The sky is the limit. Another lie. What if you can't make it because its not in you? Some people are just not meant to be lawyers, or doctors. Some people do not have it in them, no matter how much they try. Because they can't care. They are self-centered and selfish. People can be so selfish sometimes. Selfishness isn't a bad trait. It secures that you might get what you want, but other times it can cause so much heartbreak. You have to think about someone else for a change. Someone that might be screaming for you to stay, to come back and to talk. Of course he had a good reason not to. Who would want a person that is so screwed up, who cannot keep her own life together for a few days? She plays with the glass in her hand, tempting her in to the sweet taste of forgotten dreams. She hasn't taken a sip. Whether its willingness not to, or a sudden force pushing her to. The liquid twists around and around, like a whirpool of blood. A mixture of blood and water going down that kitchen sink, finding a way to ease the hurt. Everyone has their own way of dealing. Some take a more physical route. Others dwell in their own self misery. She was one of those others. Not purposely, not by choice. What would happen if she burdened someone? She would become one of those people that is looked down upon. The thoughts running through different heads. No, silence is virtue. Silence is murder. Wasn't that the beginning of the end? Silence? You can never talk enough. There is no possible way. It doesn't necessarily mean that what is being said is meaningful. But it's being said. Once the talking stops, even if its for a second, the coming apart begins. Both realize there is nothing left to talk about, nothing to laugh about, nothing. But its not true. There is always something. It just needs time to come out. And the longer the silence continues, the more time you have to push away. Time. Time can destory or rebuild. Once a second passes, it passes forever. Yet what if you go back to a country, on a trip, and you gain eight hours? Does that count? Is that time travel? No. You lived your moment. You can never go back and undo what you've done. It's permanent, like a scar. There will always be that faded skin, that place of delicacy on your perfect flesh. Doesn't matter if its from a fall at age ten or a stab wound at age twenty nine. It's still there. A permanent reminder of one time you screwed up and did something. Even if it was an accident. If wasn't your fault. You still look at it and blame yourself. She places the glass on the table, a high pitch echo going through the apartment as if in a cave. A dark, deserted cave with pitch blackness and nothing else. You have to follow your instincts, as bad and worn out as they may be. As in life. She shouldn't have pushed him away. The echo of the glass against the table like the sound of his keys falling into the dish.
Falling. That's all that happens from the first day you step out into the world. You fall, and no one is there to catch you, to help you. You are on your own. Until may find someone who will hold you, they won't necessarily help you up, but they won't let you hit bottom. Sometimes they come into lives in secret. And when its all said and done, you finally figure out, you're back into that constant decent into hell, by yourself. She's by herself. She let him fall. Her head eases its way into her hands. It's heavy with sleepless nights, and overworked days. Yet the days had always been overworked, and the nights restful, pleasent, warm. A vauge memory that now faded away. All memories fade with time. Maybe these will too. It is clear for a while, then it disappears, and as you near your hour of death, everything that happened goes flooding back. Missed oppurtunities, one more I love you that could have been said. One I love you at all.
Words mean nothing, emotions and feeling everything. How easy is it for someone to say I love you and not mean it? Words aren't always everything. You can feel more in a second, than with a lifetime of words. Words were made up, different languages, not sharing common ground. So why should words be so important? Because they let you into the mind of someone else. And when those words are gone. They are forever erased. But they should have been said. She should have told him. She should have told him the truth. The truth is never as easy as it seems. It can be hidden and covered up and twisted in so many ways. But the honest truth. It takes courage that is impossible to find. Unless you find it in yourself. She doesn't know who she is anymore. Lost. The world is lost. Never knowing where the next turn is going to be, where you are going to find yourself. Turn of events, surprises, a single shot, a split second decision, a turn. It's over. You can't plan your life out. You never know when its going to end. And those words that you had wanted to say never come out, those plans you had in the back of your mind go under with you. Regrets that never cease. Stupid regrets. Three simple words could have changed the whole stretch of time. Yet they will never come out. Neither will her tears. Both being held back by force, a sign of weakness, of humanity. No. Never cry over a loss. It's her own fault she lost him. She should start blaming herself. Not crying. It will do no good now anyway. Crying never does any good. You only cry after something happens. The purest example of human instability. A sigh escapes her, tears still welding in her dark brown eyes. She retreats from the sofa, more memories flooding back to her. She's close to hitting rock bottom. Hard. Painfully hard. She'll never have another chance. She treads her way back to the window, the glass being picked up as she goes. Her reflection stares back at her. Hate. Abhorrence. Abomination. Anathema. Antipathy. Detestation. Disgust. Loathing. Repulsion. Resentment. Revulsion. Scorn. Hate. Hate for the person starring back at her. Hate for what she had done, who she had become. Who she will never be. She takes the wine, spinning it again. She sips it, letting the taste linger on her lips for a second. She takes it, swollowing the fire, whole. No need to sense it, just feel the aftermath. The letting go of the world for that one moment. She looks back at herself. A mistake. She was a mistake. She shouldn't have been born. She places the glass down silently on the ledge, it can wait until morning. Another look out the window, at the lonely and empty streets below.
"I love you, John."
Her voice cracks and breaks. The lamp goes off and she makes her way to the bedroom. Tomorrow is another day, but tomorrow isn't always better than yesterday. The only sound that echoes through the apartment is the sound of the clock ticking, letting her know of more lost causes and wasted dreams. He's gone. She lost him forever.