today
6.19.2014 @ 01:48
Today, you said I was different (you make me so happy you
don’t even know) – or was it complicated. I’m not too sure I can’t remember but
you said I was something-different-something-complicated
and I just want you to know that falling in love with a writer is quite
synonymous to the smell of atmosphere after a day of rain; because you’ll
admire their work until you realize what had to be done for those words to be
written.
But the problem is: as beautiful or as destructive those
words may be, I don’t want to share any of it with anybody. I don’t want to
talk about my cantankerous alter ego who wanted to set her house on fire, or
about my mother who wouldn’t stop talking about sending me off and packing, or
my first (and probably not last) attempt at drowning myself in my sketchpads.
Labels: Writings
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