If there’s a story, sure. If there’s a moral, most probably. But I have no interest in any of it. Why? Because this is heartbreak. And it’s the worst fucking feeling in the world. No matter how beautifully I try to describe it, the feeling still remains: I’m shattered, I’m hurt, I’m torn apart. And it has everything yet nothing to do with him. I doubt you’ll ever read this thus I can be completely honest and exposed. I did it all wrong but I had the best intentions. I had such high hopes. Then timing came and screwed things up. I cannot speak for you. This is a one-way perspective, as seemingly it always was. I’ve realized that now. What started as a whirlwind of pink embellished splendor quickly turned into a hurricane of thundering, black, lightening bolts. Sparks flew uncontrollably, igniting fires I have yet to put out. You make me so anxious.
I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learnt, I’m just not sure that I’m ready to understand. To me the plot is still thickening and I fear the ending. To you, it’s all over. You’ve taken your bow. The audience applauds your role. It dawns on me. An actor. A stage. Lights. An audience. Where was I? Too drunk to see probably.
No, I don’t know what I’ve learnt. I really don’t know. And perhaps that is the scariest realization of all.