I lay in the sun and I can hear the music in my head. The violin, the piano. The music of my future. It swells and I breathe in, feeling the desire for greatness grow in my soul. To be known, is yo be remembered, and my memory will last long after my death. The history books will know my name, will know my songs. I won’t be matched; I will grow and climb and play my way to the top, ambition in han...
My arms are moving on wide arks, dashing lines across the board. The chalk leaves dust in the air, my hands flying through the clouds, scrawling wildly, as if my last moments are here and these are my final words. My eyes are flicking between points, erasing, redrawing, erasing, more lines. I’m out of breath and my arms hurt, but I’m not done. So close, but not done. Finally, I draw the last line....
i was never going to be enough for you,
and it brings me a sense of comfort,
that we were doomed from the beginning.
i love you.
but i am resigned to the fact that it can’t be me,
who gives you what you need.
i hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.
i hope i can find it in myself,
to forgive me....
I liked brussel sprouts once. Only once. But for some reason, whenever someone serves them I always take some, even though I never like them. It's like I'm chasing a memory that's always slightly out of reach; like reaching out to my reflection, only to be stopped by the glass....
