Tuesday, November 18, 2008

white walls and red paint in hand.

Since I'm not sleeping.. I feel like writing this --

No. Dont tell me that I am not alone and that you will always be here for me. Dont tell me that you are always thinking of my well being. Dont tell me that I'm too secretive and that I need to open up to people. No. Dont tell me that everything will be OK and that you know it's going to be OK. No. I dont talk because,YES, you're never there. Yes,Im secretive because there wasnt a time to talk about it to you. My time is never a good time for you. My problems is not as significant to yours. And No,I dont need you to tell me everything will be OK. I'll be the judge of that. And yes,my problems are my problems. Dont stay once and think that you did a good job. I dont need it.

Maybe it's in my nature to not talk about it. I get it,sometimes I'm just hard to deal with and people just get tired of it. Sometimes those words that can mean alot,cant escape my mouth,and I have no hidden explanation for it. I cant explain how my mind works. I avoid and that's my favourite solution.

Maybe it's a call for help? One that I know wont come.
And the cant-explain part of me says, 'To hell with it,i dont need it'. Reading Jane Austen makes me feel like maybe.... it's pride? Damn.

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