i'd like to tell you that today i didn't do anything except write about you. that i carried all my strength to pull out a pen and put my feelings into words. i'd like to tell you that you took possession of the first page of a new notebook, which i thought would be free of you. i would also like you to know that i've been scared, for months, to use my ink over you. to say, with letters, how i feel.
i'd like to tell you about how you visit my dreams, how i wake up aching, and still manage to smile all day. how i pretend that i'm fine and how it works. i'd like to tell you that i'm not weak. that my life has been messy yet beautiful with each decision i've taken, and how i wished i could've told you all that's happened.
but today, you see, i wrote two whole pages about this. about how one single dream can demolish all the others. or stimulate them. or even make them true. i'd like to talk to you about my constant fear of the unknown. how my legs shiver everytime i walk alone i