making notice

a dead rose is an interesting sight.

quietly, she stood there, waiting for a sign. it was pouring now. the skies have changed, the drains were flooding, but inside her it remained still. she could wait.

staring from a distance its easy to judge, the silly little girl standing in the rain, refusing to budge.

yes, she had her umbrella, we all do. it was yellow in colour, but it hardly kept her dry. but still she persisted, still she waited. for she had to, for she wanted to.

its like telling a story. it always is. we search for fairytale endings to escape this misery, endings that give us hope. endings that matter to us. endings are important. they give us reason to press on with the story, to deal with the twists and turns and to never give up.

so maybe this is the story i'm trying to tell, even if no one will listen. we all have stories. some have fairytale endings, others dont. not everyone is lucky enough to make it all the time. but we all have stories. we're made up of stories. stories to cover up our mistakes, stories to glorify our achievements.

honestly, what can i do? i'm helpless.

how does my story end? i'd like to think it hasnt yet begun, but it has. and therefore it must go on. its a horrible feeling, having to feel so empty inside, knowing that there is a hole to patch. i miss those times. now, everything feels so second-hand, so used, so done. it is my fault, i know. so many things always is. and i'll regret it always. knowledge like these can kill. it slowly eats away at my mind, and before i know it, i'm head over heels in this shit.

i tell stories, to make myself feel better. i tell stories because stories let me pretend. telling stories lets the mind wander away from this rather desolate location. and so i will tell stories.

i've got no more lies for you, no more mistakes, no more maybes, no more chances.

i dont wish i could forget. forgetting means i have to give up the happiness that i did once have. i dont want to forget and just have just another face in the crowd.

and suddenly, it just seems like its all about me. just count the number of Is and mes. but we all know, its never really about me.