I don’t really like writing about my sadness. Though I find much comfort in doing so, by the time I finish writing it, I certain sense of guilt would overwhelm me. Simply because I’m reminding myself how weak and powerless I am whenever something bad happens. I don’t like to be reminded of my vulnerability.

But really, at some point, I just can’t hold it anymore, and I just pour and pour and pour.

I’m having a bit of miscommunication issues with you. I say one thing, you hear it differently. You say one thing, and I think you meant something else. I don’t know about you, though, but I tend to analyse every single thing that you say and do. And from there I derive what you’re up to and prepare the things I should constantly making mental notes ready to be picked and used at the right moment.

And for that I have been very afraid.

Afraid that by being too analytical it would cost me my sanity. The harder I try to see through things the more complicated things get. And tire myself thinking over pointless hypotheses. After realised how stupid that was, I decided on the other option.

To not give a fuck about it.

After all, it’s only an emotional scar. It’s not like I lost an arm or something. That would easily let me focus on other things that can make me happy. Because when I’m much happier, I am calmer, and I can make reasonable decisions. So, I decided to do away with my ego and thought of patching things up with you. Only to hear a nervous male voice answering on the other end of the line.

Before I knew it all that happiness and cheerful spirit has gone. In its place is a fiery rage that accelerates my heartbeats and heats up my skin. Gone was the thought of asking for forgiveness and the willingness to grant it. Gone was the cheer and joy and stories I wanted to share. It would just be better if I continued to not give a fuck about it anyway. I was happy doing the things I love, and you’re happy with the guy you’re in love with. It’s a win-win deal, why screw it up?

That’s when I realised, I can’t afford to not give a fuck about it. As much I tried not to, I find myself looking for ways to see how you’re doing. I tried not directly contact you, for fear that I may lose myself to my own darkness and say the things I don’t intend to say. With what resources I have, I searched and found, and have constantly followed what you have been up to.

I wonder why.

Everytime I’m enjoying the company of ladies, I’m reminded of you. And the wonderful memories. I don’t know about other guys, but personally, no memory beats the ones you share with a special woman. And everytime good things have happened, the first thing that struck in my head, was to share it with you. It’s become a habit. Everytime it happens I’ll take a few seconds to recompose myself, and shove the thought elsewhere. It’s still happening. Right to this very moment.

So many things have happened. So much joy. So much laughter. But none to share it with, not anymore. All because I refuse to. Because if I ever do so, I wouldn’ enjoy the same results as I used to. Not anymore. I know you’re there. I can understand that you’re worried.

I’m worried about you as well. Because I still love you. Bcause I’m angry at you. Because I hated you. Because I have yet to forgive you. Because I have yet to ask for forgiveness from you. Because there was so much confusion. Because you hid things from me. And that I hid things from you. I don’t think we ever lied to each other other, but we regularly hide the truth, only revealing what we deem is necessary.

I want to talk to you to settle this. Will I ever get to?