I don't want to see you. The fact that you are insensitive just clashes with my hyper sensitivity. I still sometimes get the blues trying to understand how we could be so different from each other when there is the unspoken language that only both of us understand to bind us. I still don't get it. And on some honest jaded days, I get to contemplate that maybe I won't ever will. Just as you won't ever understand why nothing is ever good enough for you.

What am I to you?

I simply refuse to believe that one would just forget about the existence of something supposedly important in one's life and then after a gulf of oblivion, one suddenly remembers. What do you want from me, this time? I cannot bleed for your wounds and be discarded like trash the moment you feel better. Time and time again. I'm sorry but unlike you, I have trouble getting over something I've invested my heart into.

So. no. Don't come. I don't want to see you. Live your life now like I am living mine. I am happy for you and I truly hope you will find contentment this time. Don't go running after the wind hoping to come to a full stop.

I hate you for making me wish that it was I who made the difference.

How do you comfort someone who is going through pain you can only dare to imagine? How do you answer questions you yourself have asked for a lifetime? How do you make someone understand a logic braced by faith when logic alone doesn't make sense? How can you shelter a heart that's selflessly dying to save others from pain?

There are times when the mind and the heart goes hand in hand. But when circumstances dives to extreme and the heart drops to the abyss of grief, the mind tries to make sense of what is mad and in attempt to hold reason together, it snaps and you'd be amazed at how fast a human's defense mechanism takes over. Overnight, a new man emerges and you gasp in blatant disbelief on how both extreme personalities could possibly co-exist in one body.

I know he's still in there. Deep down, probably tired and weary, resting along with the questions that deafens and are left unanswered. I believe that with enough patience, prayers and constant love, I will get to see the blessed day he'll come back again.

When words of comfort and promises of understanding and love fall to deaf ears, what do you do? When nothing is good enough and things doesn't make sense, how will you live? When madness reigns, turning friends to enemies, sending paranoia to hunt you down, how do you go back to who you once were?

How do you forget a memory too big a milestone, it killed everything that's good? How do you start being a person after the soul's died? How do you suppose to know love after love's fled away.

What's left is a hallow and tired shell of a tragic yesterday. The broken and dry image of what once was is a bitter reflection of how dreams are when they die. Blind and senseless eyes stare back in mocking desperation. Perhaps, a remembrance of a distant longing of a distant life.

I forgot which movie it was that I watched this week but I member well what one character said.

"If it hurts, then it isn't Love."

Of all the many senseless things I've heard in my life, that was the most revolting. Love hurts. Love hurts. People bleed because of Love. People choose to die because of Love. Love, amongst all its other attributes, most certainly hurts. It can't be love if it doesn't hurt.

I simply refuse to believe that the world is overflowing with masochistic people who enjoys the bitter sting of pain just for the kicks out of it.

I know of a girl. She's very lovely and smart. She writes beautiful prose and breathes grace as she dances the world in tiptoes. I imagine her toes are as broken as the pieces that lay on the floor. With her heart as flat, like old soda, pointless, unflattering, and unrelentingly hopeful. I drank her brokenness because although we're both complete strangers, I have found kinship in her pain. But she's stopped writing, for over a year now. I would like to think that she's finally happy. That she no longer needed to bleed to write. That she no longer needed pain to sigh.

If you have read, seen and felt this emotion that binds us all lovers together, then you would know that pain is the shadow of love. To ask for love without pain would be asking to embrace a soulless devotion. A mediocre bliss and a passionless romance.

Pain doesn't defile love for the volume of pain mirrors the magnitude of love. Love cannot be defined without pain. For how can you measure happiness without a string of tears?

Even the Son of God bled and died for Love.

For how long will you keep this up?

It pains me to realize that you don't know me at all, after all these years. For everything that's transpired between us all these times, you still somehow haven't figured me out yet, nor how far my love goes for you. This has so far been the worst.

Rip my heart out, why don't  cha?

I don't want to say more because I still love you. I know I will read this entry years from now just like how I still read the entries I wrote about you four years ago. This time, I don't want to remember.  I don't want to hate all over again.

It's not like you haven't done this before. I just never seem to learn, I guess.

Suffice it to say that you've done it again.

You should be ashamed of yourself. You take the words right out of my mouth. You leave me speechless. Me. For someone so fascinated with words I claim I breathe them, you still manage to somehow leave these lips dry and broken.

Just so you know, I hope you bleed.