SKYSCRAPER'S LIGHTS.

I'm sitting at Tadioto tonight, having a piece of apple pie served with cashew, caramel and vanilla ice-cream, drinking hot Earl Grey and about to smoke. Did I just describe myself in a sentence? That line can be used from now on until I stop wearing black. I had a Skype date with my best friend dude and my laptop broke three times, worked like a charm on the fourth attempt and now I bet he's helping a friend to move. I'm looking at the melted ice-cream left in my plate, looks like my mood. I'm suffering from a breakup, every time feels like the first time. Every time is different. Every one is special in their own way.

Maybe this is a different 'first time'. Because this is the first time I actually sit down and write about it. Most of the times I ran away or hid with a happy mask. 

"I thought you broke up long time ago?" Now you're kidding me.

I can feel this is the end. Not an usual fight. I'm suffering instead of enjoying. Every time I tried to find a reason, I failed. So I'm not going to do that this time. I'll take it as it is. I admit there have been several occasions I villianized him, in a way that didn't represent who he was, only good enough to make me feel better for a while. Is it something we all do? Hate so as to live again? I can't go on hating him like that. I'm not the kind of person who lies to her own feelings. I write, it's compulsory that I stay truthful to my heart. The truth is I liked the guy so much. Looking back, I'm grateful for his appearance in my life. At least I wasn't alone from December to March. I didn't love him, I adored him. I have never loved anyone. I was so excited to see him even though some nights I knew for sure it'd be like shit. But I chose to be like shit with him. That's when I knew I'd found somebody special. When I could just shut up for a minute and comfortably enjoyed the silence. 

The thing is, the more we care about someone, the more likely we'll hurt them, the more severely it'll be. We'll mock them for such little things, take their existence for granted. So one day they'll leave. And we wonder why. 

I looked at the thousand lights on the skyscrapers tonight, and you weren't one of them. The night is still beautiful, the light is still bright. But why am I so not still? A flip and things changed. A word and the book was finished. 

It's sadness that makes things beautiful. It distorts the perfection a little so it'll be more real. We like the idea of each other. What lies inside sometimes is too much. 

For every one, I have a box for them. This time, there's also a post. 

I don't like the mushiness of it, how it starts with "I". But it's true.