I wrote this about a year and a half ago on another wordpress blog I attempted to start that fell apart like this one did.
I love you but you don’t love me. I can’t blame you though because you can’t make someone love another person, but I can hate it. I can hate that every time I see you walk through the door the happiness I get is immediately pummeled into submission when you don’t look my way. I can hate hearing your laugh but never having it sound for me. I can hate every Friday having to leave you and then, again, hate every Sunday night having to see you the next morning and know this will all start over again. I can hate that I love you, but I can never say I don’t. You are the reason there are tears in my eyes and my bed feels so lonely at night.
I hate bits and pieces written like this all over the place. A paragraph or sentence that I really like but haven’t made into anything more than what it was at that moment I wrote it. So I saved it to give me a reminder of why I like to write. It’s also a reminder that I’ve never done anything with it.
There’s a hashtag I like to look up: “excerpts from a book I’ll never write.” I feel like this is my thing. I write excerpts from something I’ll never write.
I’m kind of surrounding myself with this type of stuff today. I’m trying not to be negative and think “well, at least that’s what I’m doing today. By tomorrow it’ll all be gone.” Even though I just thought it and then typed it out.
I’m getting sentimental. The ‘feels.’
I’ve read so many appropriate things that I could just spew them over and over again but the good part about wanting to be a writer is sorting through all of the words to find the right ones that express how you feel.
Saying things like this:
She still makes me smile when I watch her. I like that I can do it without her knowing I’m there because she wouldn’t be the same if she knew I was. Her interactions and personality are so much fun. She’s got an odd level of confidence mixed with a hint of self deprecation that is quite charming. It hurts like hell to not be the one she’s talking to but I’m glad she’s still talking. She was my muse and I can’t quite let her go, even if she’s already gone.
All of this has no purpose but the end result.