Some people abuse love the same way some other people abuse drugs and liquors. It's very much like peering death over a certain distance; as you stare down the balcony in awe a lover's figure in between nameless crowds— mind numbing, so wrong, intoxicating, adrenaline rush, soft and silent— but mostly pain.
Everyone have felt the taste of death firsthand before. Abuse of these things are either a means of resurrection or fully embracing an end or, in most of our cases, repression. We gave it the rosiest name we could pick for such an ugly state-of-being. Soulmates, escapes, bigger plans, hobbies, happiness, warmth, enjoyment, indulging, living, art, feeling alive
So this is life now. You keep abusing what is given to you to keep going just a little bit further. You're running from something and you don't want people to sympathize but you don't keep it discrete, you wear the bruises like medals, sleeves decorated with angry marks. What is it that we tried to signal off?
And, so, death is a glass covered pandora box. For so long, you pressed your nose up to the glass around it with eagerness of what it could and would feel if you let go. Abuse more pills and abuse more sleep, abuse more wine and abuse sex, abuse narcotics, abuse someone. You get the picture. You know you wanted out at some point.
Shallow depth that we're swimming in but enough to drown. Empty, hollowed carvings and structured bones with worn out flesh we are. Not so hard to drown and equally easy to float.
I gave it some depressing thought: many people indirectly chose to drown in hazy days as it is easier to let it consume you. For some, fighting off is not a worthy conscious decision, tiring and predictable.
