An Introverted Extrovert

I beg of you, don’t look at me, don’t say anything to me, don’t touch me or smile at me. Because I’ll fall apart at the idea of you having me in your thoughts. I’ll misread everything you say, every smile or touch towards me and then I’ll hate myself when words aren’t said. I’ll justify everything for you so you don’t even have to bother trying. And then, I’ll wait and wait and wait and wait and just when my heart feels like it’s moved on, I’ll speak up. That’s just what I do. Fall too fast, say too little and feel too much.

The realization that I'm totally alone, hit me really hard today.

We build these walls not to keep people out but to see if anyone cares enough to break them and you came so close that it hurts that you're leaving now.

All I feel is pain and loneliness, At home but this place feels foreign, Every choice I make seems wrong in hindsight, All my smiles and laughs are fake, I fucked up.

My greatest fear was and is that I will go years without feeling anything for anyone again. See that's the problem with treating people like shit. They develop fears and start to find safety in Solitude and numbness. I'm not scared that no one will love me, I know how to make people love me but I don't love them back, atleast not honestly.

I don’t feel things like most do. I hit lows that you couldn’t even come close to. But my highs are staggering. Looking into my eyes is basically Stargazing. You sit at your pity party and I’m the chandelier above you. Sadness is dopamine, and you're a drug abuser, and your mind is saturated from all the drug use. Look at your eyes now, look at what those drugs do to you. If you’re ever dragged out of hell, you’ll need to get rid of that drug too. But I won’t touch you. I won’t put my shoulders under your arms and crutch you. I’ve been down that road with you. You gave me no option other than to say “no” and close the door. It’s impossible to love someone who lives life without a meaning. Someone who doesn’t know what they want and you had a choice to make. And you made it that winter Evening.

And of all the things I miss the most, not missing you is the thing I miss the most.

She is a paradox in motion with an edge about her which is immensely beautiful yet impossible to describe. She's an illusion in a world which is devoid of imagination. Yet, she's more real than anything I've ever seen and as each day goes by, my desire for her increases.

Her love felt like a shirt which was too tight around my neck but too loose everywhere else. Suffocating me but leaving me shivering in the cold.

Dead.

Her mind was a library and I wanted to read all the books until I realised they were all about him.

Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don't know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It's that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don't know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.