Here is where it starts.

I need someone to write to. I am in a dire need of a muse. A perfect companion for this melancholy that never disappears. Is this my sickness? Sometimes it feels as though these sad eyes are an inheritance of mine. That for me, a beautiful happiness will always dance with a beautiful sadness. It is incredibly difficult to admit to loneliness. Living in the confines of yellow stained walls and green gates as barriers from the world. With creaks only from the sound of my own footstep. When I cry, I find myself laughing almost as hysterically as I am crying. I have never been able to figure out whether I find sadness laughable or hysteria a fitting symbol. Please, I ask that you do not look upon this as simply a young girl’s jaded perspective of the world. Oh poor girl, so broken so young. If only this universal, this internal aching for love was decoded from the first heartache. If only the bitter taste left behind was enough for us to walk away and never look back. I want it to be known, I have no particular image or words that I wish to sway your mind with. I think I wait too long to express simple thoughts; I end up giving one of the most tangled explanations as to why the setting of the sun stirs in me an overwhelming desire to cry. I am inspired by this coffee shop, by its orange, black and brown colors. How there are chess boards and pieces hung up as decorative, about the dim florescent lighting and the row of computers intended for gaming. I want to pen down, how such a strange harmony is so beautiful to me. I wish to write about a man who seems to me more of a dream every single day, how it overwhelms me. If kindness could speak through just a gaze, and tenderness through a gentle caress, I would dare say that he must be some blessing bestowed to me from above. I won’t lie to myself and say such things as ‘I have never felt such a thing before’ but I feel almost remorseful that these feelings were ever reserved for someone else. If a face that you were once so familiar with returns back to the crowd after love has long since left, the reminder is so light; that time feels like it was lived by someone else and you were only an onlooker to its crumpling.

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