I will hide behind my screen and cry. And no matter how much I try, all that I type will be normal. Those moments when I long for the keyboard to write about my brokenness are somehow always stolen from me, and are patched up with obstinate hope, so that all I am left with are lost moments leading to more lost moments. Some day, we will break in and away. Some day, the patched up cracks will start to give in, and we will have to see what we do not want to.

There is nothing more bitter than past happiness. Nothing crueler than larger-than-life dreamy moments of perfection that get stuck in time. Feeling the passage of time is a strange thing. You aren't supposed to notice it go day by day, are you? And yet, at some point in life, you do. As if you are running late. For life.

There isn't much left to say or do. Never before has hope seemed so cruel and so indispensable at the same time.