i dont know what to say. i am tired. i want to throw away all of my notebooks. i want to throw away all of my mistakes. all of them penned in ink on college rule. some of them in watercolor. throw out pictures. the ones with your face. stop this damned slideshow.
but i cant. i am not the one controling the projector. this is against my nature, but then, it must be my nature because i am doing it.. naturally, thoughtlessly, and ever so effortlessly... dragging up bones from long earthed graves. gathering and scattering them and gathering them again.
maybe if i didnt write, i wouldnt make mistakes. sorrow seems to be this poet's fuel. sorrow and love. and the two, though they are not the same, walk hand in hand. for there is misery in ever joy and rapture in every hour spent weeping. maybe i should stop singing.. maybe we should stop talking... or perhaps i should just forget everything but today.