Masochist

As I write this post, I am waiting for the clock to strike the half mark of the hour as this would mean freedom from the ill-binded walls of my workplace. And I am catering another low points of depression which surprisingly marked itself palpable despite of daylight.

I found myself lingering in your wall, reading posts and looking at your photos. So much for suicide. For I have remembered immediately what I had and lost, and all those that I’ve tried to forget just to survive hours without you. But it only took a single standing photo of you to bring back the pain and the emptiness I was trying to forget.

You’ve been around, and so many things have happened. I envy the circumstances you’ve managed through and how you’ve change and kept on changing. As if nothing’s holding you back. And here I am puzzling my way out of the maze I call life. As you try to comprehend whether there’s more to this maze yet doing incredibly well in finding your path, here I am lost in thought, moving in circles.

I never stopped there. I continued reading your posts one by one. And I remember your voice. Its tone and tempo. I remember your lips as you unnecessarily smile between words as you talk. And reading these exquisitely crafted phrases seemed that I am listening to you. And I remember how complex and how beautiful your mind is. How can you blame me for falling for you if you could easily take my breath away by mere expression of your thoughts. And you express it in a way that leaves me in awe. But there’s nothing I could do anymore. But to still admire you like before. As I’ve been admiring you ever since.

And eventhough you’ve shut me out, you’re still the kind of pain I would rather kept on having.

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