I look inside of me for words but I’m empty. How many times have I used my emptiness to write? I will find the words and whatever comes with them. Memories, associations, and maybe some more words. They tell me that I’m perfectly happy and I’m perfectly sad, that I’m right and I’m wrong; about myself, about them, and you.
My words, they’ll tell you that I’m confused, but I am not. I’m perfectly happy in the beginning and perfectly sad in the end. I’m right and I’m wrong; I just wish I was right about different things, and I wish I was wrong about you.
It is consuming to think about this, to close my eyes and look inside, to think about what I have become and how difficult it is to live with that. I know that I don’t wish to change, and I know that I’ll take the good and the bad and whatever comes with them. I just wish I could do it with you.
A change is a promise and a sacrifice, and all I can think about is what I stand to lose: myself. When I look myself in the eye, I’m neither happy nor sad, but I am attached. Maybe it is fear, justified, but it doesn’t feel that way. I will change; for me, for you?
I look for words and write again. I will look once more and write this.