I’m tired of me and I’m tired of everyone else. Empty talks and names that don’t mean anything. Things that pass for entertainment. Noise and lights and glaring screens that dull my brain.
Things change, the world spins, and I feel stuck. I desperately want us to be the people who would walk aimlessly for hours until we walked out of town and into the fields of green. We wouldn’t worry about food or sleep or how we’d get back. We would just be. Or maybe we’re exactly who we were. Maybe I’m still the same me and you’re still the same you. Maybe for all these years, I’ve been trying too hard to make our stories click.
I’m writing this while you’re sitting across the room from me, and it hurts to admit that I’d rather write about this moment than live in it. When you’re not here, I paint your picture in my head and I put all these wonderful words in our mouths. Maybe I like you better when you’re an illusion.
Maybe I like us better when we’re an illusion.