#pseudo writing

[mediocremediocrity]

I guess the truth is, you're always gonna choose other things or persons over me. And the thing is, I'll always let you.

ts., words over actions

[mediocremediocrity]

We were in love. Right? We were really attracted to each other, but we kept on seeing something weird about each other, you were too steadfast, I was annoying, you we're crazy, I was mad, and we just back off. Still, we kept coming back. We were like opposite poles of two magnets, like we're fine if we're far from each other, but the closer we get, we just snap together. But we were cowards and too proud to admit that we wanted to be really together. And we blamed it on everything and to each other. Someone told me, it didn't mean anything, so our love wasn't true. Tell me, does love really have to have a meaning before it can be considered true? Who are they to negate the nights and days we talked about running away, buying a small parcel of land near the beach, building a house, having a small library, and getting a dog? And yeah, maybe, have kids. Four kids before we're thirty-eight, like you wanted. You were always the one to talk about settling down, kids, retiring, growing old together. I mean, I have, for the first time in my life, imagine settling down with you. I did. And I wished I told you. And like we always do, I'll say life interfered that's why we're comforting ourselves with the thought of a parallel universe where in we're living our lives together we once wanted. A very nice and polite guy asked me if I can consider being his date for tomorrow. I said I'll think about it, but here I am, writing about you.

t.s., Rattling shitty excuses

[mediocremediocrity]

The reality is, moving on isn't as quick as it seen in the movies. And that's what's frustrating. You decide to move on, you try to, and you really want to, but even one small message of 'how are you?' just blows up all the improvement you thought you had.

ts, Sometimes, trying to move on fucks you up more

[mediocremediocrity]

I don’t want an ordinary story that we didn’t last. I want a roar, an uprising, I want a revolt. I want you to realise just how much I have changed you. I want you to look back and not see calm, moonlit sky. I want strong winds, heavy rains, thunderstoms.

t.s., Mediocre love is for the weak

[mediocremediocrity]

Sometimes, it is not the cuddling before or after sex. Sometimes, it is waking up not just feeling the warmth of a body beside you, but knowing that his arm is around you, or that your legs are interwined. You could both be in an awkward position, because you both move a lot while sleeping, or your mouths hanging open. Sometimes, romance is dirty. Sometimes, romance too, is intimacy.

ts, romance and intimacy

[mediocremediocrity]

I haven’t drunk texted you in a while, when I am basically drunk everyday. Am I trying to drown my sorrows? Maybe. But, your taste is still stuck on my tongue, I keep on reaching for another bottle. They say I’ll die early. They don’t know that when you left, I already did.

ts, alcohol is the only thing I can blame now

[mediocremediocrity]

Did you ever feel that it was a mistake to let me go?

ts, Dead-end wishes

[mediocremediocrity]

I think Doha is a city that'll burn itself as much as we burnt. We were as hot to each other as the climate, yet I still feel the cold wind blowing inside your window on that cold february night. No, this is not a love poem, but there is no other way for me to express my feelings for you when you're practically half the globe away. We are only as good as the people we choose to be with.

ts, Imagining late night conversations with you