How Long is the Night?

The irony of finding the “One” is discovering in the long run, another version of you encompassed in somebody else’s anatomy. A perfect prototype served in a supposedly golden platter. It’s beyond our hands. Besides, we can’t really help it. Read your physics book, people.

Cosmic Law: Like attracts Like

There. Almost a textbook trajectory of masochism. But even a narcissistic asshole wouldn’t think it’s funny for long. So whenever your calendar dictates the perfect day, you will eventually uncover the wrong spots. Again it’s beyond our hands. Surely you will bite your tongue for sometime. Then it won’t be too long that you will find yourself lashing her for being your own worst enemy: a “You”. At the same ground, you bruised yourself more. It’s a 2 way knife to the heart. As you let her falter on her feathers, you crash and crumble deeper, clipping your own wings in the process. Usually without an audience other than your sanity. You became each other’s high. Each other’s scar. Each other’s tragedy. An echo. And the funny thing is whoever chooses to lock the coffin, in some form of astral hang over, you get buried too. Same molds. Same dirt. Same hell. Escape is an illusion.

I’m tired.

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