philo 11-14-24

You would've, you could've, you should've. You're now a person from the past. You appeared high and mighty, acting prideful and tall. Where'd all that go? The walls you built long ago, now eroded by guilt and failures. Did the fire from within finally dimmed? What a pity. Gone so fast that light in your belly.

Even when you're gone you still want no pity. Want no debts. You're that childish and petty. Well you're out of luck because I came here to say that you were everything to me. I love you, I care for you, all that cheesy lines you hate to hear other than when your alter egos say it.

You always write how no one understands, how no one puts time to even try. Didn't it ever occurred to you that they did and you were just too entangled in your act? You were so loved, so cared for and they were patient in understanding. You are so occupied in the past you failed to see what's in the present. Too engrossed in wallowing in your own brine pool of self-pity to appreciate what you have, what you had and the things that you could've had. That's your problem. You are too blinded. You absorbed too much your judgement dried up so hard it became inflexible.

Congratulations to your final act in your miserable life. Your circus trips was atleast a fun ride. You fulfilled your objective of having fun as much as possible with little to no accountability in your actions or consideration to the consequences that will follow. As a result you are now haunted by ghosts from your past and the deafening shrills of memories with dead individuals. You miserably and tragically tried to attain the slice-of-life, coming-of-age movies and shows you watched. Your life was hideously frenzied series of your tragic attempts in being poetically aesthetic. It was unsightly and pathetic.

You can fit in any world yet none fits you. It does not feel right. It does not look right. You are everything you want to be yet you are plain out nothing. Others may see this as an issue yet you loved it. It was yours. You always write in those little proses of yours how you are like water. Too big, too infinite, too impossible. I remembered how at first you didn't liked it. Jack of all trades, master of none. You were so heartbroken to the fact that you have nothing you're good at.

I admire you. Your confidence, your intelligence, your patience. I can already imagine you wincing at those words and shout at me, saying how daring i am for stealing a dead mans' intimate words specifically written for you said aloud in an undeserving audience. But because you really are those things, but at some point you stopped. But I assure you I understand. I understand you. If I can I will hold your cold hands, put it near my lips and kiss it. Even though you reek of death and embalming fluids, I still think you're pretty. How funny because if you were alive you would've punched me already.

I could've been there for you. I would've been with you to sit and feel all your feelings. I should've took those posts and proses you made as a sign you're relapsing and reached out.

I know you did it with a quiet mind and calm heart. Even looked at death dead in the eye just to say it took a couple of failed attempts but you're here now. So I will be the one to regret for you and call out what you're going to miss.