A Fiction of Sorts
**because the year will not be complete without confronting a pesky heartbreak**
Guess what, I've managed to become impossibly restrained. A self-imposed silence where you are concerned. Sometimes, I'll be itching to sound off my usual non-sense, a non-eventful "hello, how are you, did you know that..." But halt there Jenny! I've lost that right along with a bunch of other things I guess I didn't feel entitled to at anytime during our joint existence, wholesome or otherwise. Har har.
When I take a quiet moment to ponder this whilst adapting a whimsical far-off gaze, it pulls a forcefully forgotten string to quiver a sad whiny note.
So I pound on the delete button, shove the phone away, and leave it at that. Nearing another eve of an anniversary of an uninteresting event (my Deftones song of the day, had to use it didn't I? Lol), I still can't feel guiltless when dropping a simple "Oi!"
On the contrary, the reason's not as simple as the obvious conclusion a regular Joe might derive without batting an eyelash. Or maybe, just maybe, because I'm not sure myself...I might not have looked at you any other way as I have thought. So the mere looking subconsciously reminds me of...well, I guess, you. So it follows that there's no "before" that I can go back to as a point of reference. How dramatic. And it stinks of cheese.
And my friends, you know me and cheese.
Chloe and I were burning our eyebrows away late at night a couple of weeks ago while deconstructing the word "hate", and how this little gem of a word could be one's magic bean --- sprouting endless possibilities, catapulting the self into heights of conjured salvation and well-being. At the end of that conversation, we surmised that fabricated hate can only last you for x number of months.
I surprised myself when I declared that I, Jenny, can never genuinely hate you. Chloe stares at me with awe as if I'm nobility and goodness incarnate. I shiver and let out a long "Pffttt." We can't have that now can we?
So...
When you find it, burn it. Think of it as the fact that I may have lied. I'm sorry.
Guess what, I've managed to become impossibly restrained. A self-imposed silence where you are concerned. Sometimes, I'll be itching to sound off my usual non-sense, a non-eventful "hello, how are you, did you know that..." But halt there Jenny! I've lost that right along with a bunch of other things I guess I didn't feel entitled to at anytime during our joint existence, wholesome or otherwise. Har har.
When I take a quiet moment to ponder this whilst adapting a whimsical far-off gaze, it pulls a forcefully forgotten string to quiver a sad whiny note.
So I pound on the delete button, shove the phone away, and leave it at that. Nearing another eve of an anniversary of an uninteresting event (my Deftones song of the day, had to use it didn't I? Lol), I still can't feel guiltless when dropping a simple "Oi!"
On the contrary, the reason's not as simple as the obvious conclusion a regular Joe might derive without batting an eyelash. Or maybe, just maybe, because I'm not sure myself...I might not have looked at you any other way as I have thought. So the mere looking subconsciously reminds me of...well, I guess, you. So it follows that there's no "before" that I can go back to as a point of reference. How dramatic. And it stinks of cheese.
And my friends, you know me and cheese.
Chloe and I were burning our eyebrows away late at night a couple of weeks ago while deconstructing the word "hate", and how this little gem of a word could be one's magic bean --- sprouting endless possibilities, catapulting the self into heights of conjured salvation and well-being. At the end of that conversation, we surmised that fabricated hate can only last you for x number of months.
I surprised myself when I declared that I, Jenny, can never genuinely hate you. Chloe stares at me with awe as if I'm nobility and goodness incarnate. I shiver and let out a long "Pffttt." We can't have that now can we?
So...
When you find it, burn it. Think of it as the fact that I may have lied. I'm sorry.
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