For all it's worth, December is finally here at long last, and I am five days too late. There are things -- mundane things -- that have come and gone, experienced soiled and spoiled, shared and grieved. I've brought upon myself home a full dufflebag with a live mind inside, living and breathing, poised for a lifelong disarray. One thing to remind myself that there is danger in my words and actions, even moreso when prompted by rage and desperation. There is happiness in this, I whisper to myself, and everything seems to be forgotten. And then finally I've learned how to mature.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.