Monday, May 30, 2005
I marvel at how damn fast my mood can sink. I'm.. angry, no.. disappointed, no.. confused, no.. I just don't damn know geez. I. I. I used to promise myself I wouldn't let myself feel this way anymore, that I'm a different person from what I used to be, that I wouldn't play cheap mind games with myself anymore. But just look what happens. Damn look what happens. I'm just losing myself in a spiralling quagmire of what-ifs and what-nots and I'm eventually backtracking to my square one, in the process getting body, heart and mind in a bind that knows no direction nor aim. They say people are like this. I leap and hope to God that I can fly, because otherwise I just drop like a rock, wondering the whole way down why in the HELL did I jump in the first place. But here I am falling.. Where I leapt before I now lie nearly fallen. Just because you're the only one who has ever made me feel that I can fly.
But we all know that feeling, that I ain't the one who can make you fly, and through a facade that wrenches and plumbs down to the core we can only wish that you would be your happiest even though it isn't going to be with me. And you wonder why I would leap and yet commit the same fundamental mistake that has dogged me since time immemorial, because love is pain, now I know, love is the pain of giving your heart like Van Gogh did his ear and then realising that you're a freaking pansy unworthy of a goddess' requited love. But you can't stop it, and by not stopping, a heart twists into pangs of pain whenever you see her because you know you will never tell and she will never know; even if you do you'll just be aiming too damned high for your (and her's) own good. Because a promise to yourself will ultimately be overwhelmed by Providence unfolding the story of my life.
What a crap yarn.
But we all know that feeling, that I ain't the one who can make you fly, and through a facade that wrenches and plumbs down to the core we can only wish that you would be your happiest even though it isn't going to be with me. And you wonder why I would leap and yet commit the same fundamental mistake that has dogged me since time immemorial, because love is pain, now I know, love is the pain of giving your heart like Van Gogh did his ear and then realising that you're a freaking pansy unworthy of a goddess' requited love. But you can't stop it, and by not stopping, a heart twists into pangs of pain whenever you see her because you know you will never tell and she will never know; even if you do you'll just be aiming too damned high for your (and her's) own good. Because a promise to yourself will ultimately be overwhelmed by Providence unfolding the story of my life.
What a crap yarn.
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