I am always in owe of how little I actually know about life. Just when I think I have things figured out, my slumbering nature rears its toxic head, and I am left with the simple notion that I'm not the person I wanted to be, that she wanted me to become. I am flawed in more ways than I can count, and I am still such a coward when it comes to things which matter. I don't live to be happy, I live like I was writing a story I would want to tell someone when I shall be grey and old. I let people go just for the shake of seeing if they'll come back, and as it turns out, none of you ever do. I am the common thread, the reason all of you leave, and the sole denominator for our undoing. Perhaps in another alternate universe our stories will carry on without the encumbrance of my undermining rationality or my aching body or restless soul. And maybe, just maybe, one day you shall think of me without resentment or regret, but with a smile on your face and peace in your heart.
