She asked too severe questions. Too serious, they would always whisper to her. The truth was that her thoughts were not even half that deep. Why can't you see it's not ideal? Her questions were constant, running through her mind, unignorable. Simple or intense and intricate. Oh, she would sigh when all of it would overwhelm her, she felt like swimming but the corrent was too strong and she ended up buying an iPhone and slowly dying without saying a word. Losing your identity sucks but it's painful when you're the only one to blame. She would curl up sometimes, so fragile and broken I was always too afraid to touch her. When I see a creature so interesting I never really know how to react. And she was the most interesting broken piece of life I had seen in years. The scrapbooks pilled up in her room contained too many memories of a previous life and she would never really open them unless despair took over and she would sob in the corner missing every single bit of life that she once had. It's difficult to climb out a of a well without a rope.
I went through a stage once. I wanted to write beatiful and meaningful things but I realised that all that lived in my mind was darkness so I couldn't really write about light. I got used to that idea, I grew accostumed to the darkness within me and knew it would never really disapear. For a while I fed it nicely. It gave me inspiration to write about suicide and to write about her who was just as dark as I was, curled up in a corner of our joint kitchen drunkenly sobbing. I never really knew why she cried so much and so hard. It was like it was too painful for her to live. Maybe she still felt a bit of life in her and that was the part that would cry.
Her questions made me think. I fed my darkness a bit more and started slowly typing. I found that I could wirte beautifully if all of it was darkness and death. The typing eventually became furious, like a tempest of sand in the desert. And it was obessessive. I would spend days just with words running through my mind and how painful was that. I couldn't move past a pen and paper, my wrist had a permanent injury by then.
He was too intense. He typed away furiously in our joint study while I sobbed in the kitchen clutching memories and wine. All my memories from that time are fuzzy bits of confusion. I knew, even back then, that he wrote about me. I wonder if he knew how much of my own writing was about him... Whenever I meet someone as dark as me I find a way to make them darker until they give up and go on their way searching for light once again. I never really understood why people chase the sun, the dark is so much more conforting and warm. It was just crazy.
I felt like dying, all the time, that's all I could think after a while, I wanted to die. None of this felt worth it when I knew, and I knew it to the bottom of my soul, that I would never be as rich as I once was. Why can't you see it's not fair? I choose to be happier, to forget you ever existed and ignore that I ever had anything else but nothing. It was difficult but Freud taught me how to repress memories so that's what I did. I pushed you back into the wildness of my subconscious and continued to move, a shell with no substance. And I felt like dying, every day it was stronger the will not to live. No matter how many times I would try it though I would always find myslef on the rooftop of a building asking myself if it was worth the jump. I asked too many questions, I always overthink. That's why my love for life would win over my will to die. I want the answers to all my questions so I would turn around away from the edge ashamed to find myslef useless but uncapable of reciclying myself. I would like to start over. Starting from the point where I met you and try to get it right this time. All I wanted was a second try...
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