Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Different

I guess I'm different from you.
You say you hide the pain, but for me, its hidden before I ever noticed it was there. In its place - and I know when I've hidden something from myself - there's just that almost-nothing, an emptiness that's never quite empty. It feels like a face kept carefully void of emotion, and I for the life of me cannot see past it.
So I have to lie awake and think, looking back, trying to figure out what it might have been.

That's why I write. Because though it hurts, the pain for me is better than the not-quite-nothingness, and writing helps to catch it before I lock it away from myself.  I never learnt to manage it alone.
The pain is newer, now, and the catching gets easier every time. And when it comes to figuring things out, I'll welcome the hurt because it proves I can feel what I thought I did. That isn't masochistic, is it?

Though if it was that important then you should've told me. Because you don't, you know, you act like its really nothing and just another whim and then you don't understand why I keep pushing. And I know maybe I should listen every time you say no, but if I did that we wouldn't be friends at all.

I checked, but blogger doesn't have a private setting.

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