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End In Ink
How funny it is, yet so heartbreaking to know. I wish I knew the whole story in advance. I did so very well, I tried, but I ignored it. My perception had blinded me; lost, I was wholly withdrawn and vulnerable, forever ignorant to its separate plot and focused solely on me. My story tells a new but old, familiar tale. My own accord, it's always been just about me. I'm living each day by dawn and dusk, somehow always failing to see the plot in it all. I think you see it all so clearly - and you always have, silently blending in the shadows - but everything is just a blur to me. The vision of a perfect ending that I've longed for, my reflection in the mirror has since turned black. Is this why you are so familiar to me? How did I not see it? Why was I so foolish over who you are? How could I ever be anything that would show you something different?
You saw it all along, so why did my novel bring you to read past chapter 1? You followed others when you knew the truth and saw the light; I could offer you nothing, yet you still remained by my side. I guess our curiosity will never end and we always have to know, but knowledge is half the battle when you can't answer things about yourself.
Did you find your answer in the footprints of another’s steps? You had to know, as you stood in the distance, watching my mistakes unfold as I fell. You were the perfect ending, but you doubted it too long to truly see it. Finding that sense of self-worth is a battle we all fight every day. You knew where it all went wrong, but at least now you can hum that old hymn your grandpa would sing every morning – the one that assured you that you were home, safe, and loved. A great feeling to experience once again, one you had felt was gone forever. It's a good feeling to finally be where you belong; it brings a real smile to my face, the type I haven't had in a long while. A smile that I don't have to fake. This is why I call you the perfect ending.
You were the answer I never found, as I never asked the right questions to end up where you are now. I can always tell a story and some I'm more familiar with than my own, but like most, these tales still have a few pages missing. I know the book itself is at its most crucial part, just reaching its peak for that big moment, yet I still somehow miss it all.
Nevertheless, this moment of anger between us invariably buries itself into my peripatetic subconsciousness as an involuntary vicissitude that we carve our days around – which, in turn, unwillingly standardizes our lives as if we were meant to anticipate this occurrence and oblige. You saw it coming all along. Your vision couldn't be any clearer and I was too far away for my story to be heard the way it was meant.
My story tells itself with my time and pain, possessing me and portraying itself as a living entity, out on its own, ready to play the role of my life. Knowing all of my passions, all of my ambitions, and all of my wisdom, just to be used against me and viciously taken in haste, with no remorse or place for reconcile.
Still, the void in my heart, the purest...
You saw it all along, so why did my novel bring you to read past chapter 1? You followed others when you knew the truth and saw the light; I could offer you nothing, yet you still remained by my side. I guess our curiosity will never end and we always have to know, but knowledge is half the battle when you can't answer things about yourself.
Did you find your answer in the footprints of another’s steps? You had to know, as you stood in the distance, watching my mistakes unfold as I fell. You were the perfect ending, but you doubted it too long to truly see it. Finding that sense of self-worth is a battle we all fight every day. You knew where it all went wrong, but at least now you can hum that old hymn your grandpa would sing every morning – the one that assured you that you were home, safe, and loved. A great feeling to experience once again, one you had felt was gone forever. It's a good feeling to finally be where you belong; it brings a real smile to my face, the type I haven't had in a long while. A smile that I don't have to fake. This is why I call you the perfect ending.
You were the answer I never found, as I never asked the right questions to end up where you are now. I can always tell a story and some I'm more familiar with than my own, but like most, these tales still have a few pages missing. I know the book itself is at its most crucial part, just reaching its peak for that big moment, yet I still somehow miss it all.
Nevertheless, this moment of anger between us invariably buries itself into my peripatetic subconsciousness as an involuntary vicissitude that we carve our days around – which, in turn, unwillingly standardizes our lives as if we were meant to anticipate this occurrence and oblige. You saw it coming all along. Your vision couldn't be any clearer and I was too far away for my story to be heard the way it was meant.
My story tells itself with my time and pain, possessing me and portraying itself as a living entity, out on its own, ready to play the role of my life. Knowing all of my passions, all of my ambitions, and all of my wisdom, just to be used against me and viciously taken in haste, with no remorse or place for reconcile.
Still, the void in my heart, the purest...
