The places we continually visit, like a relative we have no wish to see
It’s eerie when people fall out of love. It’s like walking around a husk of a person you use to know, every smile becomes harder to contort. Every inquiry more robotic. Every mannerism gets amplified within your own head times a hundred.
It’s like an embodiment of a haunting, the concept of them, us, now, later, together, planning, laughing, exploring has just died, but it’s happened so recently that those things are hanging there in a thinly veiled fog. Almost as if it were taunting you, though that’s neither of the persons’ intent. It’s just sad, like a short poem, but nothing to be made into a theatrical production about.
Maybe it’s just the feeling of rejection that keeps a subconscious disdain flowing (who am I kidding of course that’s the case). That every time you think you do it better, that you are a better partner, listener and friend that it will still some how come up short to the figurative “other” out there. Things happen, people are who they will be and perspective puts everything back into place and the pain will subside with distraction and titillation and apathy.
I have an adventure to try fall in love with. I have a sense of becoming that I have to rely on. I have large pine woods, clay canyons and soft silent shores to sweep me off my feet. Onward towards newer horizons and goodbye to fading twilights.
