Today I worked. And sweat. And considered how I was going to get out of this labyrinth. And, frankly, I don’t know. I can’t see a way out. I think, ‘When I have those shoes, I will be happy.’ But will I really? Probably not.
I am willing to do anything for you, for this. But I think it’s futile. And I wish I could stop, stop waiting for something that will never appear. Though I would rather waste my emotions on you anonymously than hurt someone else by pretending that I loved them. This is safer. Maybe not for me, but for everyone else.
And we were both born under a bad sign, I think. And I think it makes us special. So I’m working that angle. Poets, artists, star-crossed lovers. I sleep better at night when I think of us as something other-worldly, rather than ordinary people who happened to lock lips once or twice. This is important. I think that we are important.