Eventually I'll stop caring. That's what I've been saying for six years. Can you believe it? Six years of that mantra running through my head. Wait it out; it's only a matter of time. Apparently that time is longer than six years. I'm tired of believing that I'll eventually stop caring. I'm through with the idea of having had enough heart-welling sadness at some point. I'm done. I've given in. I'm a sad, tired, pathetic clown that will never make sense of the miserable fact that one blighted day you decided to make yourself alive in my world, and since that day, you've made it impossible for me to ignore the ache in my lungs that comes from living with your memory. How about that? I've said it. Again and again.
I've been saying it for six years. So while everything in my life has changed around me. Everything. My mind still remains tethered, bound to the hope, stuck on the dream, tolling on some days louder than others: why didn't you love me like you were supposed to?
I can't make sense even if I try.
Nights like these I remember, Les Matter.