I'd figure I'd start writing odd stories and small blurbs for the heck of it. Oddly fun, oddly enjoyable, oddly addictive.
It eats away time and let's me relieve myself from a string of responbilitis. What else could I need?
To write about the things you saw, the people you've met, the places you've been. It's an accumulation of endless thoughts and ideas.
Self-expression and imagination. Creativity and contemplation. Then there was you.
You rocked my world, leaving me speechless. Mere words couldn't explain how perfect you were to me. Every moment with you riddled me with an ecstatic joy.
You piqued my curiosity. Rendered me incapable at times. Constantly giving me the chills, somebody couldn't be this perfect?
Eventually, you turned into my everything. I was tired of admiring you from afar. So I decided to do something about it.
However, I was afraid and lacked confidence. Constantly messing up every moment with you. Who knew expressing yourself could be so hard?
Ah, you grew tired of it, it was easy to tell. I felt at fault and conflicted, unsure what to do. My emotions didn't match with my actions, there was nothing I could do.
Slowly drifting apart, a sense of enstrangment. Compelling forces kept us apart. Seeing you became a pain.
It hurt so much to simply see you. I mean how could it not when I wanted you so bad? Yet, I sat from afar and continued to stare.
When will this aching stop? Will it go away? If so how long do I have to wait? Or rather, will you come back?
Eventually, I accepted the reality. But yet, it still hurt and continued to ache. I wanted to see you.
And so, I started writing again to ease the pain. Wrote both my regrets and created strange fantasies where You and I became "Us".
I reflected and I thought, perhaps things weren't meant to be. I convinced myself I'd stop writing about you. But yet, here I am.
Helplessly, I still think and ponder about you. Hoping you're doing fine. Hoping you've met the perfect one.
I know it's not good for me, got to detach myself eventually. But yet my feelings still linger, and so I continue to ask myself, "why?"
Until I figure it out, I'll continue to write. Perhaps once I reach the end of my chapters and odd, eerie fantasies, I'll find an answer for you and me.