We were our own kind of story, our own kind of disaster. We were Romeo and Juliet without the love, written by a sadist Shakespeare where Juliet stabs Romeo in the back herself as he sits there, filling the room with the gray haze of hash infused smoke, where the two turned into enemies before they could’ve ever been anything more.
So don’t talk to me about fear and don’t talk to me about madness, don’t talk to me about recklessness when all of my worst fears have finally come true and life is a nightmare, peppered with moments to make it feel bearable, when it’s anything but. Nothing is worth it anymore and do not try to convince me otherwise.
The sadness really does last forever.
Image taken from here.