It hit me. This story of us is all a misconception from my end. I was so in love with you that I misconstrued your friendship for reciprocation. Even at the falling out, I mistook your silence for pain equivalent to mine.
And now that we are at the bumpy part of the ending road, I am still revisited by hopeless misinterpretation of a love that never was. The veil I have unshrouded. I have shook off most of the memories, more so the feelings. I have honestly forgotten the happy chunk and deliberately remembered the painful parts to help me get over the former.
Yet by some play of fate, we are rekindling, to my dismay. I fight off vehemently, literally and internally. And so far I'm still at the winning end. By being half-hearted I tend to see it from a far-off point and yet imbibed enough to get more of the revelation I have so long ignored but not willing to forego..
We are at the climax, resolving the conflict of the story before we give off a blastful or quiet ending, whichever it may be, then roll the credits.
Why, you'd ask, when we have died as our parts with each other? Because a story doesn't end unexplained. That is not a story. That's the way for real life.And ours is just a story. A chapter in our lives that has to end. Which is worse when left unexplained, a life or a death? Probably both because the two are one - integral and cannot be separate from each other.
Life is not but without worth at its end. The art of forgetting, I have mastered it that even the important part I forget. My recovery is the vagueness of memory.
Forget poignant.
Forget vivid.
They're all[.]
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