Ever wonder if you had the chance to do it all again, if things would end up differently? Or if they'd be the same?
Relationships, all about choices. It's all about the little things that eventually will pile up. The tiny, almost insignificant shit will be the worst. Practically burning a hole in your head.
And in a split second, you're sixteen again, in that same situation wondering how the fuck you made that dumb decision, or rather...wondering why the fuck someone ELSE did.
Maybe that saying is true, "everything happens for a reason", I never really got that far into thinking about it. I think it'd be nice to say that it is true, easier in a way. But i don't know...somehow it just doesn't sit well with me. I guess I personally think that sometimes when things happen, it has no reference to anything. It never will.
Shitty things happen all the time. Good things happen in the background. Sometimes it seems like the bad outweighs the shit out of the good, hah. In the end, I think there's balance. But what really constitutes as "the end"? When we're happy? Yeah, cause all we can feel is the good. The bad disappears. Our blinders are on.
There's no use, really.
Just gotta find that balance.
He leans over and softly tucks the strand of hair behind her ear.
she is lovely...she is lovely.
Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls.
He wants to wake her up, tell her, hold her. Caress her. Reassure her that everything is going to be okay, things will work out. Life will move on as planned.
But he feels her sadness. Between the sheets, she is cold, she is shivering, she is in pain still.
What can he do? What.can.he.do.
"I love you," he whispers in her ear. Her chest rises up and down. Rises and falls. "I love you more than life itself."
Her body presses against his and he wants her. Inside his urge is screaming at the top of Its lungs, he fucking wants her.
But her perfect curves, her flawless composure is silent.
The rise and fall.
He kisses her forehead, places his hand over hers and closes his eyes.
She is lovely...
She lays perfectly still, unmoving.
She is breathing...she is here.
Her chest tightens with each breathe.
how could he do this to me? The images replay over and over again in her head. It engulfs her every thought, her every emotion, her every existence. No. Wrong. This isn't living.
She wants him to grab her. To stroke her hair. To cradle her while she sobs; for what? Everything. Anything. It all. All of this.
She pictures him with her. Her with him. Her with no one. She has no one.
She can feel the sob creep up in her throat, it almost escapes but she punishes herself...pushing it further down. She can't cry, she doesn't deserve to.
Vulnerability is too much.
hold me...hold me please she croaks inside.
His hand brushes her hair behind her ear.
she is safe...she is silent.
His hand on her hand. Security. The familiar twitch of pain.
She is perfectly still, unmoving.
Again, she fools him. Again...he knows nothing of this.
I had a thought the other day.
I was sitting on the bus and directly across from me a man sat, hands shaking uncontrollably. Probably MS or some sort of illness.
He was smiling, talking to the complete stranger beside him. At first she was sort of afraid, startled a little I guess. But as her and I locked eyes, I smiled, trying to reassure her a little.
I have no idea what I thought the "meaning of life" was before. In fact, I don't even know if I came up with anything to be quite honest. I probably went with the "live everyday like it's your last" which would justify me getting fucked up all the time. Drinking. Partying. Going weekends without any real, peaceful sleep.
But as I sat there, looking at this man across from me, I started to realize that life isn't about that bullshit. It's about finding whatever makes you happy and doing it. Being able to do it everyday with as much dedication as you had the previous day, if not more.
Maybe I wasn't completely wrong. I like to drink. I like to party. I like to live that side of my life a lot. But I know that one day it's gotta stop. That, or I'll be dead by the time I'm 25, hah.
Because that guy was living life. He was sick, but he was on that fucking bus man. And he was smiling. He was talking to people he didn't even know. He was friendly. He was kind. And I respected him so much in that moment. To just...be there. Be alive. Be able to get out of bed and to just DO things.
I didn't feel sorry for him. I didn't pity him.
It was refreshing to see life in a new way...