It gets almost disgusting writing about the one you love, the ones that hurt you, the ones who disappeared, the ones you miss. There’s this deep sense of inadequacy and this etching gap that lies between the writer and the subject because you write to keep them alive. And all that’s left is a lingering paper-trail that you later find under a pile of crinkled papers or under useless old books that lie in dusty bookcases and if you should ever part, you would never be found by the next lover in line. There’s nothing left of you. And then you can’t help but wonder if they will be sad when the day comes you stop writing about them. You stop because there isn’t anything to say anymore. There isn’t anything left to prove.
Posted on: Mon, 16 Sep 2013 19:21:19 +0000
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