• Maybe happiness is a choice.

    by  • November 11, 2014 • * Safe for Work *, To You • 0 Comments

    There once was a pathetic little girl who loved to spend her time reading anonymous letters on the internet. She wanted to believe the animosity was in fact mystery, secretly hoping the “you” addressed in the confessions were directed -by some strange magic- right at her rusty, mellow heart.

    I don’t know why I can’t find it.
    I’m not sure what it is, but I know that something (someone?) has been lost.
    Recoveries are simply the realization of a new complication.
    But you, you were meant to be simple. I’m going to go off on a tangent right now, because this has strictly nothing to do with you.
    All the worries and sadness that resonate in my thick-head, had melted into your reassuring eyes. Eyes that are hungry to care, lips that speak beautiful noises, fingers that dance with my skin. Turns out you’re just another (charming) complication.
    I’m tried of apologizing
    sorry but it’s true.
    I want to hurt your feelings so that I can know if you have any. Do you love me? I don’t really care. Does he love me? I don’t think i want to know. I need to know, before my hero-complex takes over my rational thoughts, whether you are a poor, lost soul recovering from some terrible depression? Or if you’ve been rendered a little perverted, a little sadistic from people who have hurt you? Am I safe? Can I tell sing my dreams to you?
    The more i get to know people, the more I’m convinced of how inevitably fucked up everyone is.

    My brain has short-wired. Logic tastes like lemon and emotion smells like rotting strawberries.
    I don’t know what I want. I don’t know who to trust. I want so badly to feel comfortable and stretch and relax, but then I feel warm tears on my cheeks, and I realize I don’t know how to.
    Maybe happiness is a choice.
    Maybe choosing to seek it makes you as fucked up as thinking you are it.

    The little girl read over her work. She decides to add a narrative conclusion to her anonymous letter, and smiles in plastic satisfaction at her pseudo-personal entry. She wasn’t writing it for the poetic ideal of publishing a piece of her mind in an abstract dimension, a lost corner of the internet-world. No. Her slippery mashed-up heart hoped he would read it. Her muted lips prayed he might find it and realize she has so much to say through the silence of her gaze.
    I wish I had written this for me, not you. who are you anyway

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