Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Fear is the Heart of Love

Taking a break from being happy, and feeling sorry for myself today.

Sometimes I write poems.

Here's one of them:

We no longer take our trips to Paris and London,
You and I.
The coats are hung up,
dried out,
with dust.
Wake up, I whisper.
You've been sleeping,
dreaming and distorting,
twisting the sheets with your thoughts.
Please, my hand is ready.
Take it,
and join me on an adventure a little closer
to home.

In case you were wondering, yes. They are all that depressing.

Sometimes I wonder if I like being bummed out--if I think staying inside and feeling morbid while listening to Death Cab songs seems like a better use of my time than going out and having a fun time with friends. Being happy is exhausting. When you're happy you have to... do stuff. Stuff like putting on clothes that don't have elastic waistbands and leaving your sofa. That just doesn't fly with me. Maybe I'm not depressed, just lazy. That's probably it.

I don't really have a way to end these things anymore. Way to leave it on a high note, Emily.

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