I’ve recently thought that my life was turning kind of into a mixture of 80s songs, full of youthful enthusiasm and brutal imagery, a bit cheeky and sometimes cheesy, but mostly it built on the sappy characters of artists such as Morrissey and The Cure. Things are getting crazier, and when my nonchalance finally caved […]
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I Don’t Mind If You Forget Me

Home / The girl who waited / I Don’t Mind If You Forget Me

I’ve recently thought that my life was turning kind of into a mixture of 80s songs, full of youthful enthusiasm and brutal imagery, a bit cheeky and sometimes cheesy, but mostly it built on the sappy characters of artists such as Morrissey and The Cure. Things are getting crazier, and when my nonchalance finally caved it all got a bit dramatic and over the top depressing.

My day is usually devised into units, units of moods that is; 8 units of hollow soul and nothingness at work, sometimes when the wind is good on my ship’s sails I get half a unit of bliss with my coworkers, 2 units of calmness and serenity at lunch time at home, followed by 4 units spent on activities, basically this is where my day gets interesting and the mood shifts greatly, it could go either way based on what I’m actually doing and I could go from hype to shattered within seconds. The last 3 units go to my lonesome time, late at night, in bed.

When I was a child, I used to marvel in how vast and spacious places would be, like everything was so big and I could get lost in it, never have I thought, that places shrunk as we grew up, to become small cellars, dark and suffocating, my bed was that cellar now; I would jump into the mattress, feel my bones crack, muscles relaxing into that space, belonging there for a moment, and as I look up the ceiling of my bunk bed, I got hunted by my thoughts, by the chaos inside my brain, the noises that would splatter all over the place, and suddenly everything around me closes in, the wooden faux ceiling lowered, and I couldn’t breath.

Happy moments, sprinkled along my day, just enough to get me through another, not nearly close to letting me get some peace and quiet, not massive enough to wash away the jumbled ideas, and troubled mind. That feigning serenity never worked when I was by myself, when all those feelings came rushing in, peaking through the small holes of what was left of my shredded soul, what was left of my heart, that once was bigger than the world, that seemed to think the world was spacious with vast places which I would eventually set sails to and reach. My heart was sinking, and was going beyond repair. A broken heart could be mended we heard, but what about when it was stabbed and stumped on so many times, that it got sore and bored of the shrewd cruelty around?

I could no longer get myself to believe in second chances, in happy endings and myriad places, in sailing to exotic islands of knowledge and freedom, I was losing the case, and didn’t have any more cards to play. I just laid there, motionless, expressionless, in the small cell of a bed, closed my eyes, and drifted into sleep.

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