Wednesday, 29 August 2012


If i could paint a picture so perfectly, i wouldn't have to write it all in a thousand different ways just to get to the point of how i am feeling. I lost count of the times i gave myself in just to hope i could get a little bit more from love . So i decided to take a step back and review on the failing attempts. I reckon expectations really do play a part and by having this invisible benchmark does not leave you any more invincible than you think you are, in fact, it just makes everything worse because nothing seems too impressive anymore. I tried to amend certain things but it just seemed too radical altogether and i find myself stuck in a bottomless pit hole. Admist the discomfort of it all, i remained dubious in that cuddled stupor, refusing to budge nor improvise on my plans to free myself from such displeasure. I am talking about giving up. Giving up on trying to always make things right yet ending up feeling like a total piece of shit.

. . .

Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...

Vincent - Don McLean