"What can I say that hasn’t been said before?"
I am so tired.
And I lost myself long before.
I think I’ve lost my inspiration too.
I don’t really want to live anymore.
There’s a pitch-black hole inside me, the heaviest object in the universe.
Devours my light, pulls me inward.
Crushes me down to my atoms.
Today, I am grey again.
How can I compress everything
I’ve lived through in an entire life into a single feeling,
and describe it?
Maybe that’s why silence is best.
Because the more I speak, you’ll understand me less.
And yet, I feel like telling you,
What can I do?
"Writing you is a kind of necromancy."
Without you, my sentences collapse into broken syntax.
If it weren’t like this, if you were here…
Then even I could be happy!
The world would cease to be a place full of suffering;
Living would no longer be nothing but pain.
I would want to have a child with you.
Summer would be her name.
She would be named after the sun rising into the darkness inside me
When she is born, the day would break; there would be light.
See?
Now, I have a reason to be alive!
I wouldn’t wish to die or to have never existed.
How sad…
These are just memories from a past that never happened.
I love you in the past.
No, this isn’t a grammatical error!
That’s exactly how the sentence must be.
Because you are not here,
And I can only love the absence you’ve left behind.
"Not I loved you, but I love you. Like the sun..."
I stole this line from a sweet winebibber.
You’d like him.
I told you I lost my inspiration.
There’s nothing left that hasn’t already been said.
I have to feed myself somehow.
Sylvia Plath wouldn’t like it if I stole from her.
Pity, she’d fear that I might share her fate.
I wouldn’t want to give Fitzgerald that kind of satisfaction either.
He doesn’t know it, but I’m in a kind of platonic rivalry with him.
Just like the one-sided admiration I feel for you.
At least, you know it.
In this life,
I’ve regretted everything, including being born!
Except you.
Loving you, I mean.
And saying so.
Ah, now I understand…
It means that silence isn’t the best.
"You're unrelinquished."
If only I had something like Dumbledore’s Pensieve;
I’d throw every memory of you into it.
Not to remember you again; to remember, one must forget.
To live it all from the beginning.
To let the past reverberate and bring you back.
Now you exist, even if only as an echo.
Sometimes you’re just a memory;
Sometimes the time itself.
Which iteration of my attempt to resurrect you is this, I wonder?
Each time, history repeats,
You leave me.
Everything becomes nothing.
Nothingness gives birth to you.
You say “hello” on some random summer evening.
That’s how my disaster begins.
Perhaps this time
you will pity me, show some mercy.
"Maybe the answer is not trying to understand. "
Somehow,
the subject always circles back to you.
All roads lead to you.
The emptiness you left behind is filled with astronomy.
Music and art are our desire to exist.
We are all children of Gaia,
Life finds a way.
Stories are told,
Constellations are given names from myths.
A moment fills with eternity.
A cock crows, shrill and clear, welcoming the morning.
It’s as if Tolkien’s advice, these lines are.
Do not lose hope,
The sun rises in the dark.
The purpose of a candle is to burn;
Even so, if it had a soul,
It would feel pain as it burns.
I liken myself to that candle.
That is why my writing exists.
“There, if anything was to be said, I have said it.”
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