"DISCLAIMER:
those are probably not funny."
*Funny how the very things you took of care the most and put ahead as reasons to look at and smile are to be the exact reasons for your misery; Every thought you kept safe in your head, every entry you wrote on your journal, and every picture you cropped and glued to the pages of your scrapbook would stand there upon your ruins, their wide smiles to redicule your existence, their aggressiveness and cruelty to show you that what you thought was unreal, what you believed does not exist, what you claimed is in your brain and merely your brain, is capable of causing you the worst kind of physical pains; The most horrible of headaches; the most brutal of insomnia.
* Funny how you, at a night, think you know who you are and what you're capable of doing. You lullaby your silly naive self to sleep with the songs of the dreams you think you have captured, Just to wake up the next morning on an isolated island, unaware of where you are, why you're here, how to survive and what destination are you to aim for. Your aforementioned dreams are the last thing to think about now, your ambitions, traits, lovely belongings? those are all to be left behind. The love you felt towards anything is to be turned into regret. The bonds that tied you to whatever you held dear are to be the very main source of your suffocation. It's horrible how this wide the sea, the sand, the moonlight and its reflections have all dedicated them selves to whisper in your ears the bedtime stories of the night when you used the jungle vines to create a lovely necklace to wrap around your neck and the time you took a leap of faith onto the heart of the sea. They whisper to you the perfect scenarios you were always too afraid to act. The endings you needed to make before it's too late for your happy ever after.
* Funny how you will soon accept the pain and its demands. Sooner than you'd think, the pain and the longing will stop being the main dialogue in this play and become a background soundtrack instead. It's hilarious how they not only will stop being things that destroy and change you, but they'll also become a part of you; your existence.
You get to a point where you don't want to feel, you're in the aching need of letting go, of moving on, of making a huge change as an attempt of adaptation. And so you do, or fool yourself into thinking you've done so. It hurts, and it angers and annoys you how you had to have the things you've worked the hardest to get a grip of slip through your weak fingers and fall to their break and shatter. Yet you'll find it funny how the realization that maybe it's not that bad will start rushing to your mind.
"Maybe it's better have them break now while you're capable of starting over." You tell yourself. And at last you decide to keep the memories, the scrapbook and diaries, keep the items and the writings, keep them not to hold on to them. But for them to stand there a proof that good things can exist, temporary, yes. But the impact they left, that's to persist.
those are probably not funny."
*Funny how the very things you took of care the most and put ahead as reasons to look at and smile are to be the exact reasons for your misery; Every thought you kept safe in your head, every entry you wrote on your journal, and every picture you cropped and glued to the pages of your scrapbook would stand there upon your ruins, their wide smiles to redicule your existence, their aggressiveness and cruelty to show you that what you thought was unreal, what you believed does not exist, what you claimed is in your brain and merely your brain, is capable of causing you the worst kind of physical pains; The most horrible of headaches; the most brutal of insomnia.
* Funny how you, at a night, think you know who you are and what you're capable of doing. You lullaby your silly naive self to sleep with the songs of the dreams you think you have captured, Just to wake up the next morning on an isolated island, unaware of where you are, why you're here, how to survive and what destination are you to aim for. Your aforementioned dreams are the last thing to think about now, your ambitions, traits, lovely belongings? those are all to be left behind. The love you felt towards anything is to be turned into regret. The bonds that tied you to whatever you held dear are to be the very main source of your suffocation. It's horrible how this wide the sea, the sand, the moonlight and its reflections have all dedicated them selves to whisper in your ears the bedtime stories of the night when you used the jungle vines to create a lovely necklace to wrap around your neck and the time you took a leap of faith onto the heart of the sea. They whisper to you the perfect scenarios you were always too afraid to act. The endings you needed to make before it's too late for your happy ever after.
* Funny how you will soon accept the pain and its demands. Sooner than you'd think, the pain and the longing will stop being the main dialogue in this play and become a background soundtrack instead. It's hilarious how they not only will stop being things that destroy and change you, but they'll also become a part of you; your existence.
You get to a point where you don't want to feel, you're in the aching need of letting go, of moving on, of making a huge change as an attempt of adaptation. And so you do, or fool yourself into thinking you've done so. It hurts, and it angers and annoys you how you had to have the things you've worked the hardest to get a grip of slip through your weak fingers and fall to their break and shatter. Yet you'll find it funny how the realization that maybe it's not that bad will start rushing to your mind.
"Maybe it's better have them break now while you're capable of starting over." You tell yourself. And at last you decide to keep the memories, the scrapbook and diaries, keep the items and the writings, keep them not to hold on to them. But for them to stand there a proof that good things can exist, temporary, yes. But the impact they left, that's to persist.
