I recently realised that there's this certain pain that can also be taken, or more like mistaken, as something to enjoy. It's kind of like that feeling as a child when some trampy child snatches away your toy. You cry because that's what you're supposed to do, but you forget what you were crying about but continue crying anyway because you can and the pain in your chest makes you want to.
I cried because I was heartbroken the other day. People walk in and out of my life, much to my dismay. But I forget them anyway. But I cry anyway. I feel lonely, I feel sad. I feel bad and mad, but I also feel a tad bit glad. I don't have to listen to their oh-so-fun life stories anymore that bore me to the core. I don't have to take care of them anymore, I don't have to pick them up from frat parties at four or mop up their dirty floors.
I do feel sad and bad and mad, because we shared some nice times. They'd be impressed with my silly rhymes and lines and we'd sip on our mojitos and nibble on our limes. I did start our arguments because I simply could not agree with them. And they didn't listen, just looked annoyed and fiddled with their hems. Or they'd go berserk and scream at me. And they'd swarm off like urgent bees.
They probably think they did everything for me, but I definitely feel so too. They snatched a time of my life out of my very hands, and there seemed to be nothing I could do.
They're seemingly honest although they're fake. It was fate that they left me, for goodness sake. Stop thinking, Jean. Oh but I want to. It's not like I have anything better to do. Like finishing that essay or joining that debate. Oh no, not yet, those things can wait.
I cry because I can. It calms me in a sense. It makes my pain enjoyable when life seems too intense.
YOU ARE READING
Turquoise Emotions
PoetryI am trying to cope with my chaotic, hectic self. These are my late-night thoughts.
