When I try to be nostalgic, in a daze where hope is dominating, I always want to create memories that haven't even ocurred.
Her eyes is a chocolate brown that warms your soul when she looks at you, at least that is what I know from pictures and memories from years back.
I think that the last time I met her was a couple of years ago and I can't even recall the occasion, and when I finally called her a couple of weeks ago we thought she was dying and it only lasted a couple of minutes.
And now the dust is running quickly through our fingers again, and she is but a speck of memories that's floating around in my mind and sometimes I wonder; is she really a person, not just a figment of my imagination?
But then I see my father sit up late at night, crying as he pours himself his seventh glass of wine and gushing it down with another beer can.
And my stepmother discretly lets me know that she has been through it all, and it's more horrible to her and that I am the one to be strong, that I'm the one to carry the family because they are closer to her.
My heart breaks and I don't know what to do. I've been crying for over an hour and my pillow is dripping wet and my face is puffy,
my eyes bloodshot red.
uAnd there are people I could talk to, but I know some won't care and others shouldn't be bothered with these kinds of things even though they are the ones who listen the most, because its one of those special friends birthday today and she's already in a tough spot, but so am I, but I can hide it better and fixate my face so that it's a constant bitter one with a twisted smile on the edges.
But others can't do that,
and what saddens me is that I've gotten so good at it that I myself sometimes won't notice how depressed I am.
