I suppose there is a reason for it all. For the stars to appear magical to us, for hearts to feel so full and so empty at once, for glass to shatter when one stubborn crack is formed on the pane. I go along with the motions, hoping that the happy ending everyone talks of is in my future even if I'm not close enough to it to realize. I wonder why I feel this way, the horrid thoughts never seem to exit my mind. They are only temporarily locked away.
When they surface, not even the most wonderful and romantic moments can save me. I am consumed entirely by natural disdain, disgust, and disappointment towards myself. Am I shuddering because the sudden throws of love fill me with contentment or because the lack of it? And why is it every time I feel a shred of insecurity and detachment I pull away from the life around me to scribble in my notebook?
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