Annual
And you realize, you give it all up, your sanity, your well being, your future, your success, your possibility, just for those nine and a half hours, once every year, of happiness.
Lock it away, bury it, burn it, rip it to pieces, do whatever it takes. And you tell yourself that you do, that you will. You practice with everything else, your sanity, your well being, your future, success, possibility. Everything, but that one thing.
An inability to coexist, but too tempting to deny.
Self restraint has a limit, and everyone has a vice.
And sometimes all you can do is drink your way headfirst to the vice, fuck said vice, and then move on, completely and utterly detached from that secret indulgement, until the next rendez-vous at some undetermined point in the future..
After all, it takes a while to build up the callouses, and the only way to keep them strong is by engaging in the same painful behavior, over, and over again.
Eventually it becomes easier to hold it in, therapeutic, even. Much more so than lamenting about lost loves to someone who can neither fathom, nor effectively fake sincere sentiment. They merely mirror their own feelings in a desperate attempt to prove they can indeed be there for you.
If things were perfect, they would not be perfect. What attraction remains when everything is stationary? We continue to chase something we do not actually want never at all realizing we may infact already be there, only the tantalizing ‘there,’ is constantly shifting, and it can be more than difficult to get a good footing.
I won’t give you this.
Nothing is ever good enough, so nothing can ever be finished. So nothing is ever gone.
Lock it away, bury it, burn it, rip it to pieces, do whatever it takes. And you tell yourself that you do, that you will. You practice with everything else, your sanity, your well being, your future, success, possibility. Everything, but that one thing.
An inability to coexist, but too tempting to deny.
Self restraint has a limit, and everyone has a vice.
And sometimes all you can do is drink your way headfirst to the vice, fuck said vice, and then move on, completely and utterly detached from that secret indulgement, until the next rendez-vous at some undetermined point in the future..
After all, it takes a while to build up the callouses, and the only way to keep them strong is by engaging in the same painful behavior, over, and over again.
Eventually it becomes easier to hold it in, therapeutic, even. Much more so than lamenting about lost loves to someone who can neither fathom, nor effectively fake sincere sentiment. They merely mirror their own feelings in a desperate attempt to prove they can indeed be there for you.
If things were perfect, they would not be perfect. What attraction remains when everything is stationary? We continue to chase something we do not actually want never at all realizing we may infact already be there, only the tantalizing ‘there,’ is constantly shifting, and it can be more than difficult to get a good footing.
I won’t give you this.
Nothing is ever good enough, so nothing can ever be finished. So nothing is ever gone.