I do it because I care/ because I hate you/ I like you, I really do/ I am not doing anything
I'm not thinking about it anymore. But I do.
All it takes is the sunken, smooth paved stone steps. When night swoops in with air. The grass sparkling after rain. Weight. Wind.
Go ahead, your preconceived expectations can paint whichever picture they like. I will cut my canvas in my own way and we'll see if ours bleeds the same, in the same colours. Won't we.
This is not depression. This is not self-denial either. I'm not growing up. I'm not sinking.
I just wonder why every mirror has two sides?