Did I say that I loathe you?

A friend and I both concur that self-pity is an indulgence, the rawest form of gratification. Satisfaction is what I derive outta melancholy. No pre-pubescent angst, to hell with bubbly, cheery tunes. Happily melancholic. Oxy-moronic.

A friend and I both got lost in the realm of self-pity. All is grey, life a paradox. Eternal love will never be. Expectations to be met, unfinished business. An incomplete thesis.

A friend and I both seek solace in a recent tune. Who is the blower’s daughter? Beautifully captivating, raspy soulful vocals to boot. Enthralled I am, fallen I have. Tears never fail to come freely, memories intact. A frivolity, all 3 years of it. This is the 46th time Damien Rice sings. I thought of someone. The 4th year it is, today. You’ve forgotten the breeze.

A broken mug, shattered silence. An incomplete thesis.

“Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to leave it all behind?”

Fragmented thoughts, nonsensical rambles. An incomplete thesis.