The Glass Box

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It’s in each drunken high and behind every smile when coming apart at the seams feels like the only possible conclusion. It’s in the sense of defeat that won’t shift even when you try so hard to keep going. The easy way out would be such a gift, but for the likes of us, we’re just too stubborn to accept anything less than the visions of perfection that keep us going from day to day when from the outside, all hope is lost, and any other outcome is just wishful thinking. But these wishes we keep safe from harm are what take us places. These dreams- they lift us when we slip and they pull us from the mire when we lose faith in what we try so hard to make real. Not a day goes by when it feels like such a thankless task trying to rise against it. Losers. Outsiders. Pretenders. Fake and phoney. Our truths are made to feel like lies, and no amount of resilience against the machine helps to defend us from the waves of doubt that do their best to drown us out. And yet here we are, still doing our thing like the beautiful fuck-ups we are. Away from the dirty crowd, we blossom and taste wonder. Under the gaze of the moon, we break down and cry so fearful of how weak we are compared to others, but our weakness brings a sense of lightness that reminds me of the snowfall that consumes my dreams. It’s about her, and it’s about me, and with each footstep she leaves, I’m doing my best to follow, but it’s so hard, and I keep tripping and yet the moment is pure and tells me that this journey is a righteous one and needs to be followed because what else is there? When I see her with her face beaming like a child and her tongue sticking out to taste the falling snowflakes like they were a gift from the heavens above, I know that this is my life’s work. This fragility. This silent love no one else will ever see.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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