I never knew I'd say this much about this

The nights.

There are. A few. Kinds. Of love.

That. I lay awake in.

One. Where. You are loved. 

In absence of the sleep. That refused to come to me.

But God knows why, you refuse it.

Pauses. Synapses.

The second. Where. You love.

An orchestrated disharmony involuntary.

But God knows why. You are refused.

In auto-writing.

And the third.

Maybe.

Where it's both.

The best love stories are the ones.

But the outcome is of either.

That never are.

And there's one more.
Of where fairytales come from.
 

Blurt log, II

Time is funny.

Or, frankly, it's too serious, maybe. Serious about not sticking around.

***

I can't constantly message you to tell you that you're missed. I don't know if you like to see that on your screen. If you do, I wouldn't mind. But God only knows if that's what happens.

***

Hopes.

Are they good things?

If they're not intended to be false, but you get the feeling that they'll end up as false hopes since whatever they're leading to may not materialize -- what then? Are they good things?

***

"What's the most romantic thing you've ever done?"

"Waited."

That kinda paused time for me, for a second, there. That...

***

Time is funny.

Ozymandias

Nothing beside remains, round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands
Stretch far away.

The feels

Advertising can be nice, too, then, I guess.

 

A blog post

Both sides of the grass are just green. The moon will be crescent and it seems fine. The clouds are somewhere between being simply cirrus and heavily cumulonimbus. And Rayleigh Scattering is at work putting in the blue, there.

The flowers look fine. Some of the cars kinda shine. There's a slight fog, and it's nice. It's almost winter, when I was expecting it to be much colder. But that's fine.

The food tastes fine. It's all good. The plates are circular and they're clean and that's great. There's lighting at home, and somewhere it's subtle, and that's neat. The TV's fine. The closet is fine.

My shirt is..teal? I think it's teal. That's great. And I have a tie that's grey. One that's purple. One that's blue. One that's black. And they're all good. They're all fine.

Roses are red. And that's how they look. And that's fine. Nothing needs to be overtly pink. And the colors don't need to be overly saturated. Ideal tint, tone and shade are maintained. And that's how it is. Rain doesn't need to carry memories; just water, mainly. And that feels just as good.

Really. You don't need to be in love for everything to feel lovely. It's all good. It's all great. It's all fine.

Everything just is. And that's fine.

Deservation

I think everyone deserves enough to get to know who their one true love is.

You may brush shoulders for a brief moment whilst walking in opposite directions in a queue, or share a quick, but lengthy glance, after the accidental way the person made you drop your phone. You may just have the epiphany over that brief encounter. Or you may be able to go in further, into a better world and hold hands for a longer walk.

You may be with them for a few seconds, or for your life; you may not know who they were, but you deserve to know that they were the one, regardless.

You deserve to hear their voice. You deserve to look into their eyes and you deserve to see how deep that color goes. To put your hand on their hand and compare sizes. You deserve to see them when they smile away, carelessly.

Maybe you're in the brief encounter category, but it's all still worth it.

But if you're in the brief encounter category, do you deserve to helplessly be unable to figure what to do now that nothing seems to turn your way? I can't be the one to judge whether you deserve that. But you can always tell yourself that true love isn't about ownership. Instead, it's about finding joy in what the other person finds joy in.

And trusting that, in at least one other parallel universe, you are walking the long walk.

And then looking at the night sky. Because I like stars. 

AMs

A...

...planet. Just recently struck by an asteroid of mountainous mass. 

Its high velocity provided it with the momentum suitable to obliterate planetary bodies, dousing the stone into flames. The atmosphere once glued by gravity has vaporised. The populous and vegetation that weren't just straight out pulverised have succumbed to immediate asphyxia. Then, rampant exposure to distant solar flares.

Rocks. Rocks that once formed the planet, now float without reason in a void called space. 

Shards of the world still glow like embers from the massive collision. And it seems that...

...that a planet was just recently struck by an asteroid of mountainous mass. 

Or...

...a country. War-torn. Militia that once seemed like they couldn't be a problem. They rose against authority that seemed to be functioning fine, actually. In search of communal power, perhaps.

And now, burnt tires and lakes of blood. Dried up bodies where flora once flourished. Open hands. Open wrists. Little or no movement. 

And a peculiar smell of tears and blood in the air.

Or just...

...a man. Waking up in the night. At hours not even known to exist. Waking up from the nightmare of a man in his image who picks out and throws his internal organs away into a half-filled bucket with a callous, grim nonchalance.

And then laying awake. Staring at the ceiling. Underneath a blanket. And then. Remembering.

Remembering things. 

Aren't...

...these just. All the same thing?