I'm in love with the twilight. It's in the anticipation of darkness with a glimmer of the moonlight and the twinkles of the stars. I will stare at them in utter amazement and long to be a part of them. I will close my eyes and let music fill me until I want nothing more than to become a part of wherever it is that I imagine we go when we die. I want the stand out my sunroof with my head back and my arms pinned back by the wind, pretending to be free and weightless. I wish I could leave all that is uniform and constructed behind me—to just let go.

There is such beauty in what my mind allows me to imagine some times. The dark is a strange comfort to me. It has always remained such. I cherish being alone. I crave it in its absence. My memories are tangible to me, and conjured by the strangest of notions. I can connect anything; I some times relate to nothing. I will always wish for more. I will never believe you can love as much as me. My chest feels empty, and it scares me. I can only remember love; I can't feel it. I argue with myself. I don't think I'll ever be understood by anyone. I crave speed. I think I can communicate telepathically. I'm attracted to cool colors and envy the warm ones. In my dreams, I can't breathe. My heartaches haunt me. I'm always intimidated. The world feels too small, and so big that I am lost in it. I'm just tired of being here.


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