So you wake up and you find yourself lying on the ground, covered with dust and gravel. You would wonder what had happened, but... at that point… you could not care less. You're already armed to the teeth with nothing but a shroud that you convince yourself would heal you from all wounds, protect you from all harm. You should have known better… should have known it's just a fucking shroud.

Your muscles strain enough to pull your body straight up… your senses are functioning now and the stench is killing you. You meant something, you were valuable as a person and the light up ahead is reminding you that when it's dark your senses grow stronger and light becomes noticeable. You know that if you walk towards the light you'll probably find your way out of this but… you don't want to. You don't wanna heal or recover… You wanna turn around, crawl further into the darkness until you fix it. This is what's going to make you heal. This is what you want. But the further you crawl into the dark, the colder it is, the lonelier you feel… and you can sense the fear leeching under my skin, growing on your heart that this may never happen. Yet you keep trying because it's your moto: to live life without regrets; to keep trying until you die.

But you know how it is… when you're in a dark room you can do one of three things. You can either walk out into the other well lit room, you can lie down and think, or you can fall asleep.

Well, you're done thinking for the night… maybe sleep will be your sanctuary… where you'll forget how you've fucked up.

Sweet dreams.

The wait seems endless; endless enough for trees to have grown in height, darker, casting their shadows all over my path... I often wonder what it would have been like without this, before this. Way before I got engulfed and swallowed by this overwhelming mess. It's the loss of control that hurts the most about all of this, the loss of words, the inability to share how I feel. The being stuck in the situation where all you can do is be there and hope that to them that's enough, that it's noticeable. That they'd turn around and realize how you've been around, how maybe you deserve more.

Nope… the pat on the back and the gold watch won't cut it. And even though I was always referred to as the cold heartless bastard among my real life friends, I still cherish sentimental and emotional values over all. I am human.

I miss how it used to be... 'The things I take for granted' - a book by My Decaffeinated Self. The things I could have said and done when I could, when we both shared the same reason. The words I could have framed and the moments I should have cherished, held close. If noobs had a flag to use to mark their territories it would have my face on it. I was an idiot... I fucked up.

If only she'd let lose, forgive me... want me again.

Well... all I'll do is hang tight, and wait, for feelings to re-emerge maybe. I hate my patience and I loathe my high hopes when the road just seem endless and my tries have no set limits... I hate those mind games I challenge myself with... I am the God of patience, but when it comes to them games I always lose because the voices becomes louder. The bastards talk to me, tell me that it's a lost cause, a game already lost... that it's been over for the longest time and all I'm hanging to is a thread made by my own personal delusion.

And I keep listening to them assholes telling me that it ain't gonna happen. The problem is... the longer you listen, the sweeter the pitch…

The more I hate myself for not holding tight… for being the asshole that I was.

I miss her to no end. I don't like it, but that's all I keep hearing. I don't hear her voice anymore... I just hear their whispers...