Isn't time a horrible thing?
Sure it heals all wounds, everything gets better with time, right?
Evidently not- time has shown you and me nothing but turbulence.
Surely you saw this coming. Surely you knew when I told you that I didn't like the way you grab the reins, you must have known this would happen when they finally snapped.
In a world full of enemies, still I hardly expected to find your face among the scowling crowd.
The same beautiful face I've watched from afar for years, hoping you'd approach and come closer.
I didn't know what I was wishing for.
That's a lie, I was wishing for love. I loved you, before you even knew it was possible.
Evidently that love was doomed from the start.
Neither of us could have known.
Countless nights, endless hours at every time of day, and yet here we are. Here we aren't.
Time is a horrible thing, you see because years of it were spent wishing for you, and that wish come true ended up expiring within months.
How horrible. How sad.
The nature of tomorrow is to bring new things,
But with each uncertainty, each surprise, I dread tomorrow a little more.
If you could vanish from my life so easily, so suddenly, who's to say everyone else won't follow suit?
At least I've learned prior to this, not to trust the people in my life too much, no matter their proximity
It gets easier every time, and isn't that awful? Isn't it horrible that I don't yearn for your return? The way I'm supposed to? Am I supposed to? Do you?
Your life and mine are on entirely separate tracks. I'm not used to you, I didn't have the chance to be, and you couldn't wait for me to learn.
The pattern broke, the pattern of strive and determination.
How to guide a soul that has no desire to move?
It disturbed me, your distinct lack of desire for change. Within yourself, and your surroundings. I've never seen it before.
Like a slide on a microscope, I studied you. And I pressed too hard and the glass shattered beneath my watchful eye.
I can't make out shrapnel from specimen anymore.
I'm sorry. I am. Not for what you want me to be sorry for, but I feel the deepest regret for not understanding why I was playing a losing game.
I'm sorry my motivation shrouded you, I'm sorry I pushed for the impossible. Sorry I drowned you with a foreign language you couldn't understand.
I've reflected on you and your form. Who you are.
I get it now, a little more at least.
Too little too late, and I've no chance to show you my findings.
Not that it makes any difference, to show your shadow a light and explain that, although it couldn't exist without it, it's also it's greatest weakness.
Consistency is your light.
Driving home the idea that you're running in circles doesn't stop the track and field team.
I feel a deep, burning rage inside for the way you misunderstand me, for the way you're cemented to the floor I can't walk on.
But I can understand why you'd be hard pressed to watch me walk, when it's impossible for you.
I've been running forward to someone who was on the ceiling above me the entire time.
Humanity and parasocial relationships age like milk, so quickly they sour and become unrecognizable, unthinkable.
But, my dear, perhaps we can make cheese of this milk, instead of tossing it out.
If my bottled message somehow floats to wherever you are, take it to heart, and let me write my way through this wall we've run into.
You might find it was worth your while.
