Tell me you love me.
Tell me you don't love me.
Both might be possible at the same time.
I find hard to believe you find anything funny or endearing in my entries. They are as unlovely as I feel right this instant.
This is no longer an attempt at poetry or even a diary, it's insanity in distilled form.
I expect that, as I once said, one might find it hard to avert their eyes from a looming train crash. There's a terrible morbid attraction for self-destruction.
But I'm not Sid Vicious. It's late for me to die young, though I would leave a beautiful corpse.
Who's the addict here?
I bet if I told you NOT to think of a zebra playing the piano, you'd achieve it. It's irony, of course.
That's how much control we really have over our thoughts and feelings.
There is only the illusion of control. Nothing else.
No comments:
Post a Comment