literature

Letters to my other self

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Literature Text

It's hard, it really is.  

It hasn't even been a week, and yet it feels like a fucking lifetime.  I really like being friends with you, but sometimes I feel that we'll never be able to get back to how it used to be, and it scares me half to death.  One minute you have the next four years of your life planned out, and the next, you have nothing.  I know it's my fault, and I know that I should be sorry.  But maybe it was inevitable...I would have rather done this now, when I feel completely numb toward you, than later, when I felt hatred or disgust.

I'm trying to make this work, but it's hard.  Saturday changed a lot of things for me.  I know you said you were sorry repeatedly, and I know you meant it, but that's going to be on my mind for a while now.  I never thought anyone could make me so angry before in my life, but I also didn't thought that a perfect thirteen-month relationship could come crashing down so fast and that it would be my fault.

Jealousy is a wicked, cold bitch.  You know, kind of like me.

Does it surprise you that, although we've never fought before, our first fight came two days after we broke up?  It surprised the hell out of me.  If I end up taking you back, will it be like that again?  I just don't know...and maybe I don't want to find out, honestly.  Taking a gamble on my entire future is risky shit.

This isn't just my future we're talking about, it's my present too.  People take the present for granted; it's here one minute, and it becomes the past the next.  People don't understand that the present is so much more important than the future; what you do no may affect you for the rest of your life.  I've focused on the future for so long that I've gotten out of touch with the now, the here.  And I think that's part of my problem.  That's part of why I did this.

Two weeks, that's what we have.  Even more than that—eighteen days.  Those are going to be the longest eighteen days of my life, but like I said, it's for the best.  I can wait as long as I need.  

It's piecing together.  Slowly, but it's piecing together.
Because this is the only way I can get you out of my head.
© 2006 - 2024 Alabaster-Lies
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