So there's this fucking horrible thing and it's called hope. We're all born with it. It dies sometime, really. Mine has died. It wasn't a moment; it was gradual, and then sometime last year I guess I woke up and found myself lighter, lighter, floating out of love and into apathy. Not to sound dramatic or anything, you know?
I remember that small moment on the second story of my house. I had kept your little Magic 8 for days. I don't remember why it was at my house. It was sitting in a pile of things I needed to give you. When you came over, I called you up to get your stuff. Before you came upstairs, when I was still alone, I took the 8 Ball and asked it: "Will this year be different?"
I don't believe in magic, I believe in God and the delicacy of his fingers and the omnipotence of his decisions in physics and biology.
"Yes."
I had hope in that moment. It's stupid to base your happiness on a plastic sphere filled with glowing liquid; really, really stupid.
But it was right.
I met new friends. You came back. I leave sometimes. I love sometimes. I laugh sometimes. It's an improvement from everything.
And then that time when I told you, "It's just been a bad 2 and a half years." Happiness felt so far in the past, so far in the future, nowhere in the present.
Why must you chase me and make me believe in you?
I don't wait to believe or sing or wait or hope or love or do anything except go and be quiet with nothing. I don't want to be fragile. I don't want the ups to come, prefiguring the downs.
But it's here.
