No one wants to finish what they start. Like love. Like life. Like spending time being with the person you like. I think I wrote these somewhere before, but I just can’t help repeating... It's the malaise of the human condition: Everybody wants forever... But nobody wants to wait that long.
This is all finishing. But I’m finding it exceptionally complex to finish the finishing of it. What if it never stops ending? What if there is no final, full stop? What if after years, I would still be back to this place, with this similarly faint emotional remembrance? What if love will come back to me after a year of detachment?
What if it just keeps collecting exponentially around me? This colony of brain cells I call a mind, accruing cluttered thoughts eternally. Filling each space with gigs of memories in some hard drive in a rundown consciousness at the wrong side of my mind.
There is no sense in it. There never was. Writing it down didn’t make it easier to deal with. It made other things. Conjured different demons. Created a cosmos of thoughts akin to nothing real. Things said for the sake of saying, and I try to make it as approximately close to my thoughts as possible...
I don't reflect here. Here is not an image even remotely indicative of me. I don't know what "me" really is - but it can't be like this. Or can it? Surely there is more form to it? More pattern? More reason and acuity? I mean how do you even portrait me after reading all these entries...
Who am I kidding? My head IS like this. I write as I think and that's why this should end. Because having a record of it, however imperfectly distorted, still hurts sometimes.
I am coming apart and I am tired of describing it to you. It’s best to let your mind finish - What you think you knew and thought of me.
This is all finishing. But I’m finding it exceptionally complex to finish the finishing of it. What if it never stops ending? What if there is no final, full stop? What if after years, I would still be back to this place, with this similarly faint emotional remembrance? What if love will come back to me after a year of detachment?
What if it just keeps collecting exponentially around me? This colony of brain cells I call a mind, accruing cluttered thoughts eternally. Filling each space with gigs of memories in some hard drive in a rundown consciousness at the wrong side of my mind.
There is no sense in it. There never was. Writing it down didn’t make it easier to deal with. It made other things. Conjured different demons. Created a cosmos of thoughts akin to nothing real. Things said for the sake of saying, and I try to make it as approximately close to my thoughts as possible...
I don't reflect here. Here is not an image even remotely indicative of me. I don't know what "me" really is - but it can't be like this. Or can it? Surely there is more form to it? More pattern? More reason and acuity? I mean how do you even portrait me after reading all these entries...
Who am I kidding? My head IS like this. I write as I think and that's why this should end. Because having a record of it, however imperfectly distorted, still hurts sometimes.
I am coming apart and I am tired of describing it to you. It’s best to let your mind finish - What you think you knew and thought of me.
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