No matter how much my brain clouds itself with you, I refuse to acknowledge or unpack these thoughts, as I view that sector of my life as a period in which I wish to undo. And as I take a deep breath to restart, redirect the day, it suddenly smells of you—or is that scent merely specific to me? I can no longer differentiate between the two. We were one for so long, that I do not know how to be just..one. Which characteristics are partial to me, and which are exclusive to you? I have lost sight of what I hold ownership of any longer. 

And at night, when I whisk myself away into dreamland, it is quite unfair to say the least: that my restless brain thinks of you for hours on end in quick, uncontrolled, pixelated images. But, alas, you fill my life more in your absence than your presence ever could.

We were tumultuous; we were the happiest accident that ever was made. Yet, that was it. We never matured, we never progressed, and if love is kindness, all we had to offer was chaos. All along, we made up one another in our minds, in our wildest dreams. In reality, we never wanted one another at our worst, but didn’t it hurt worse when we didn’t want each other even at our best? It could not have been more of a stereotypical mess. We wore ourselves out wearing each other in, and we yielded the same catastrophic results day in and day out. Isn’t insanity defined as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?

Well, as it turns out, I do not want to be insane any longer. - thought catalog