It's one of those stories you can't even write about, because it's so unimaginably perfect that all you want to do is spend every waking and sleeping minute with each other - the menial task of writing it down becomes more of a hassle than actual comfort. I wonder though if not finding the words for it, means it hasn't affected me that deeply, yet how can that be? After all we went through, how is it possible that I haven't spilled my soul onto a piece of paper? How come there aren't novels already finished, poems already sung, stories already told? I ponder these thoughts as I lay in your arms and as you lay in mine, and sometimes without even realising it, I'm struck with this overwhelming sense of guilt. I know in my heart and soul that I would travel to the moon and back, just to be your dream come true, but then I think, what about my dreams? What about my notions of how my life is supposed to unfold? Am I blind to the fantasy right in front of me or has my past truly made me so cynical and forever sceptical of the happiness I have been awarded? As always the answers are far from simple, and the truth is too complicated to recognise. Perhaps the journey meant to unfold is one I should not be able to predict, for that alone is my life - a boy who keeps running away from the life he was given, in constant state of shock from a trauma that never happened.
