Melancholic pathethicism

Sometimes, in particular late at night, I imagine you in your room also looking at my name. Your cursor slowly circles around your screen but you never say anything – exactly like what I do.

I imagine a panorama shot of this city, where solely two lights shine, yours and mine, in an ocean of other less brighter ones.

Or when I walked the same streets as you have walked and I tried to picture what were the things that impressed you the most – I hoped they were the same as the ones that impress me, but I’m sure you’d put it in so many other different ways. I tried to imagine how you grew up and how your experiences have shapped your perception. Maybe, we are similar.

I wish one day I could tell you these things. Did you know I write bad poetry, and texts like this one, about the boys I find interesting? That I am capable of love? I wish I could show you that I am not this uni-dimensional girl, purely driven by looks or randomness. I wish I could tell you I was in a bad time of my life when we first met, but I really can’t. I wish you could see how screwed up and destructive my mind is sometimes, or how insecure I am all the time but I won’t. Furthermore, why should you care?

So my best hope is that maybe, in the off-chance you come accross this blog, you’ll finally see something interesting about me.


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