4/28/15 in The Thing
- April 28, 2015, 8:48 a.m.
- |
- Public
The more things
fucking things, man. I’m not eloquent. No matter how I try, conspire, pretend. I’m not.
Right
The more /things/ change, the more /things/ stay the same. This. This feeling is the same. The loss. The stupid feeling of loss that is over a decade old now.
Over place. A thing.
A thing that isn’t even the thing I lost.
So I sit here, looking for a salve or a bandage to cover this scab I keep picking open.
There is no replacement out there. I’m not sure if this thing, this place in my head ever really existed.
I dream of an imaginary ghost
I fear
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Waiting For Sunrise ⋅ April 28, 2015
I’m not sure if this thing, this place in my head ever really existed.
This is the hardest thing to grieve the loss of, because a place in your head can be perfect in a way that a real place, person or thing cannot. Losing percieved perfection is difficult, even if the reality of it was perhaps never the same, because little can compare to or replace a dream.