(no subject)
There's this a story, but there's a problem with it; it's just an ending. An ugly, unforgiving, whimper of an ending, at that. Who cares what it started with, it ends in death. Glorious moments right before death, regretful tears right before death--death is death is death. It's the best story you'll ever think of, and the longest one you'll ever live to tell. You have no idea how it's going to turn out, and that might excite you, might keep you awake at night in the worst possible way. You hate the story. You love the story. You want so badly to forget it, and then smile when it sneaks into your subconscious. You tell yourself the story whenever wish you wouldn't, you keep leaving out the parts which you really like when you need them most. Everything you do and don't do is because of the story, but you want to pretend that the story is being written, like some river flowing steadily toward saline demise.
Tell yourself a favor, start doing it.
Tell yourself a favor, start doing it.