Someone once told me that I was going to drink my life away. I wish they were right, but they were wrong. I know how I'm going to die. Out of boredom. Like my favorite poet did.
Death. It follows my thoughts wherever I go. It breathes into my ear. It makes me want to live. And die.
Is there a part of you that still loves me? I wonder. But why would there be? Your eyes are now open. To all my flaws.
And yet. I always think tenderly for you. Because what I had with you was truth itself. Our love made me who I was meant to be. No matter that I hate who I am.
The first words. Those I didn't write for you. But that is of no importance. She's now yet another picture in the pantheon of my life. While you are more.
The muse. The conscience. The first person that ever made me admit my mistakes. And whom I've failed.
The songs. The music that we've heard lying on a carpet in my house. The lyrics we sang along to.
Your paintings. Your failing. Because you could create miracles if you put your mind to it. But you never believed in you. I still see them. Every day. As a reminder of…
To be continued.
The image was taken from here.