I like

I've come to realize that my urge to write stems mostly from what kind of weather is going on outside my bedroom window. 

I like writing at night. When's it dark and the world is asleep. 

I like writing during thunderstorms because the rapid "click-click" of my keyboard is in tune with the "pitter-patter" against the window. 

I like writing on sunny days though as well; because I can open the window and welcome the air. 

Words don't seem to come as easily as they once were able too - now the term Hipster gets thrown around wherever you go; I have no idea where this sudden idea of an off-set, "unique yet mainstream," douchebag came from but I find it slightly unflattering. Why does drinking strong coffee and wearing beanies classify me into a specific category of person? It's dumb. 

Once again, another useless post. 

I have to get my shit together. 

Stumbling

   I've gotten back into the habit of writing with hand; the traditional way - on paper with pencil. I look back on it now and realize that the reason I started this blog was simply because I was too lazy to write in person. 

   This was a bust then too. 

   I promise to be more active here. Doesn't matter really, no one reads this. And I like it this way. There's a certain, exhilarating thrill about putting up your deepest, darkest thoughts on the Internet whilst subconsciously not allowing people to find your site. It sounds pathological, but in reality it's no different than people writing ambiguous statuses on Facebook, or "subtweeting" on Twitter. It's all just passive aggressiveness. 

   This is me being passive aggressive maybe. Whatever, don't judge. At least I'm not hurting anyone. 

In the beginning

there was love. This everlasting, incredible burst of emotion, coursing through her veins, rushing into her heart; a beautiful feeling, albeit one that she had felt several times in the past. With familiar reasoning, and a similar ongoing rush of euphoria, she dove into his arms, letting the hush of his breath and the warmth of his love envelope her. She was lost in him. Within the abyss of his soul, deeper, deeper still until they were not more than a single entity, an individual combination of energy, of power, of love.
 

Then

There was the pain. Inevitably, there was pain.  When her throat ceased to open again after that final breath of happiness; it clogged and stuck; hot with tears and sore from her quiet cries of despair. And her brain throbbed and the sharp pain between her eyes shot through her nerves over and over and over again. When her pillows became accustomed to the soil of tears dropped on them night after night. When the skin beneath her eyes darkened with insomnia and the twinkle in her iris dulled. When the hurt was so real, it crossed over its emotional boundaries and harassed her physically.

And after

The constant cycle of love and hate, of euphoria and happiness followed by despair and pain, and pain, and more pain, their love dimmed. It was still present, they were still one, their soul had not split, but was simply hollow. And their fingers that were once entwined loosened. And their kisses that had once prevailed, subsided. And their lingering looks became glances. And their words of endearment became chains.

And finally

There was nothing.