Dia Reeves, Bleeding Violet
Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
—Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind (via observando)
Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can’t, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.
—Robert Frost (via observando)
I was trying to remember what made me do an emotional breakdown late last year. Hahaha my idle mind and the activities borne out of it.
Today, I found out and realized that some episodes of my anxiety attacks could be attributed to thoughts of you. Congratulations. You ruined a fairly functional human being, without even knowing it, without even caring. It must have been your goal all along.
(Just had to write/type this down because, 1. I think my other friends are tired of this drama; 2. I don’t have anyone else I can talk to about this, or at the very least, just someone who will listen to my ranting; and 3. I guess in the deepest recesses of my mind, I want that person to read this.)
Fine. I will admit (no matter how much it pains
my pride me) that I am afraid of what you will tell them. I don’t have anything to hide, actually. I haven’t told you any dark secrets that I harbor. I mean, I don’t have dark secrets. My life is a crashing bore, if anyone hasn’t noticed yet. Nevertheless, knowing you, and considering the time that I do, I don’t think you will fight this “war” fairly. Ever. I’m sorry (hahaha) for not trusting you even if we don’t talk anymore (well…), and even if you told our common friend how indifferent you’ve become to the issue (high five!), I still have this feeling that, somehow, you’ll find a way to cast me in a bad light. That you’ll twist every opinion I have told you about certain people and things. I’m not really sure about any of this, but we’ll see in the coming months.
Really, I’m trying to just ignore everything that concerns you because I am a firm believer of this “out of sight, out of mind” thing. And I think I’ve done a good job so far, except for those listless moments when I get to think the silliest things: us, talking again, hanging out like the old times, and some other crap my mind makes up — involuntarily or otherwise. Do you know that I even dream about these? I wake up, thinking that everything was okay in my life, everything was in their proper place. And that sobering cold water of reality washes down these thoughts, and it’s back to square one: we’re not friends anymore. Or that’s how I see it. As we didn’t really DTR on things, it is safe to assume that we don’t care for each that much anymore.
I think I still want you to be my friend, or at least that’s what my subconscious is telling me. Maybe in another time, in another place, if I wasn’t me and you were not you, we would have remained friends. We would never have given up on each other, and we would at least try to talk it out, mature people that we are.
Perhaps that cliche is true, that time could heal things. Because, maybe when we’re both old and gray and having several bouts of dementia, who would even remember this falling out? Funny how this reminds me of Jeux d’enfants, that French movie I told you about? Nah, never mind. You must have forgotten about it, about any of this already, and that’s okay. I am quite getting the hang of it as well.