Just when I thought that things are finally getting better,
I found myself once again digging a deep hole where I can hide from the rest of
the world. The plainness of these cycles are burning me out—that I’d rather run
to and fro than sit with you to watch the sunset, which clearly is nothing but
a natural phenomenon worshiped by all those pretentious artsy fucks.
Destroying things that you call beautiful is a desire that I can’t get rid off.
It’s like asking someone to build an awe-inspiring house with you, by the
beach, where you can feel the gentle breeze coming from the coast, where your
feet can touch the warmth of the morning sunshine. But then again, things like
these tire me. The sweet scent brought by those events will eventually turn into a tasteless
aroma...just as how a warm cup of coffee loses its charm, failing to sober up a junkie who is helplessly lying on his cockroach-infested floor.
Why do I have this urge to fuck things up and break free?
Clearly, it’s because there is something wrong with me and I don’t deserve
anyone’s attention and love. I don’t deserve a good person and I certainly
don’t need someone who wants to spice up his/her boring life with my fucked up
situation. I am not the element that makes other elements explode once we turn
into compounds.
Believe me, being with someone who’s as screwed as me is not
worth it.
Run, naïve girl. Run. This girl right here doesn't need you
to save her. Let her sink in that fucked up trance because that's where she
belongs.
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