Guess writing is all I have right now, or all I’ve had to begin with because physical affection only goes so far.
Times like these makes me feel as if I don’t belong and, in all honesty, sometimes I don’t. What makes me fit in this world are your reasons for loving me and although sometimes I can’t believe a love like this exists, I pretend it does anyway.
My phone is on silent and I have no reason to hit the power key because for a while. I’m alone but we need this space, right? I give you space and in return I have silence something I hate living with but get stuck with from time to time. To fill the silence I write. By hearing the clicking of the keys as I press my fingers on to each letter softly; striking them with just the right amount of pressure to create words that form sentences, sentences that form paragraphs, paragraphs that expression my emotions thoroughly without verbally pouring my heart out in front of anyone I know because my words are viewed by people I can never see and I love that.
This is my place to escape and as much as I express that, I truly believe it is because as I write the pain from my chest releases and I begin to understand why you need “space” and why the silence doesn’t hurt as much but yet I still hate it.
You can go long hours without talking to me. Hours without thinking to call to see if I’ve died or to see if my body was consumed in all the thoughts I possess and I know I’m not the only messed up one because you are too but how do I honestly know that? Or is that false?
I’m just ready to live my life and in 25 days I will, or hope to, but then I don’t know if I’m ready to live because this world is evil and cold hearted.
Another reason I love about writing is because it provides me with ways I can “live” through my words. I can create dreams that I may never live out but yet still dream of as if it were real; only to be hit by the painful hand of reality.
Sometimes I think I pity myself so much that it allows people to find reasons to pity me but I hate sympathy. At times I say bluntly what I mean and although its harsh I can’t regret it because sometimes we all deserve to be told straight with prettied up truths.
My phone is across my bed and I refuse to look at it because I know nothing will be there. I’m friendless with no intention of caring because I have you but yet you need not to be my friend at times, like now; right?
My life is a sob story, fact.
But I love living it, false.