too much love

No Neat Title

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“I would love to say that you make me weak in the knees, but to be quite upfront and completely truthful, you make my body forget it has knees at all.” Tyler Knott Gregson.

How can someone who loves like that, feel so sad.

I come here and I see a pack of lies. Yet somewhere in this web string is the truth too, not caught in a neat title with a border and margin, but in the archive spread, the page breaks, the errors and corrections. It is, perhaps, in my agitation, fixation on a misplaced comma in a previous sentence that I refuse to correct. I refuse to set it right, teaching myself that EVERYTHING is subject to perspective, including right, fair, correct and straight lines.

Perhaps it is befitting that I talk of this place before I talk of others. How strange must it to be, for someone otherwise a wall of grey bricks with streamers thrown across it to be raw, breaking stone, hollow in the middle at a completely public, vulgar place, in sluttish manner. In fact, I should think it’s so strange, it’s stereotypical. And I couldn’t care less. I already see idiots assuming they know how to put these words together and form a coherent sentence. I see them now grimacing, some hating, that I should be so full of myself to call some people idiots. And I still don’t care.

Can, sometime, everything around you be so convincingly the same that you’re done and tired of it. Not tired, because you’re tired of tiredness too, aren’t you. I fail at words so hard, sometimes. I mean…. Can everything around you be so itself, happiness so happiness and trials so trials, that you just transcend beyond, shot up on a catapult, while you wish you could grope a stray memory and hold on, despite the knowledge you’d be fooling yourself in the process. Dimwittedness is a strangely lovable word.

But that wasn’t the point. The point is, funny thing is so blunt, that every time I try to touch it, my fingers just rub off dust and fall to another paragraph to edit. Sneaky little thing, the roots of the plants as they say, maybe the root is there is no root. Wait, wait. Maybe that’s it, that the problem isn’t fixed to an event, or cause, and it’s wayward, powerful nature is its scare. Shelter is so absolute and warm with him, but when something becomes too precious, you lose your mind protecting it. The problem is, I’m protecting it so viciously, anything that shifts it a millimeter swirls me off my axis. And that’s when this agonized madman writes blogposts.

Things…. are Still touching me!!!!

Now, pause.

Always, always, always taking care of yourself. And how can anyone else ever help when every word that comes out of your mouth is a riddle in another language to them. Only he could know.

There are a few ways things could go on in a matter of time. The best part is I don’t want any single one of them. What I want is such a mighty bang that it even knocks me off my feet. And I know just what to do to get that.

Yes, now would be the time that you puff, huff and go away. Do you not see my hatred, do you not feel my resentment, I’m breathing down your neck, teeth gritted, tears pasted to my eyes. I hate.

I hate. Tonight, for five minutes, I burn hate.

Comments have been disable for this post. Whatever you think you want to say, you’re wrong. You are all wrong. Except him. But how can he be right from so far.

You’re wrong.

The worst thing in the world is ALMOST, for its insatiable need to become an Always. It’s the almost that makes mud out of minds, nerves half electric, thoughts half formed, feelings have felt, because everything is frozen in almost.

Wandinoda… {} Tight. Always. Always.

I love you, always.