Stories are written on the darkest paths and are sung by the most pure souls that happened to delve in lakes of mud. Sometimes they are written by melancholic souls and are kept in metal safes. Both types of stories whisper thoughts and feel like flames…of various colours, much like the auras of the people that decided to start them or found themselves in them. I don’t know what I wanted from that story, hence why I chose to never start it and I was weird about it. It wasn’t because the story wasn’t worth it… In fact it might have been one of the most worth it stories I could ever find myself living. But I needed to save myself and focus on roads towards goals rather than flaming words and wandering thoughts. Everything was finally falling into place after a long while of endless soaring and floating on ether, and thus, I was too afraid to risk it. And so, right before I make the step towards the ditch and fall whilst thinking I would be soaring, I stopped because you had fallen a long time before me and I couldn’t bear the thought of ever contributing to your suffering. I value you too highly to do so and once again I fooled myself that I could keep one in my life by not giving in and coming clean before anything happens. But once again I was simply saving myself…from feeling again. I am going to miss you, little genius. I am sorry I never let myself fly next to you and get lost in the sunset. The abyss has taken over me.


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