When you arrived, you came with promises. You carried hope. Love was an afterthought.
Promises are pretty. Not beautiful, mind you. Just pretty. You wrap them behind layers and layers of words. Mostly empty, but words nevertheless. And actions too. Actions, they are different from words. You see, words can be empty. Actions, they are never empty. They are hollow. Just that, hollow.
As time passed, (and time always slips by) you unwrapped your promises. Layer after layer was peeled open rapidly, and all that stared back at me was a naked patch of blankness. And your kisses? Your kisses were always cold, love. Cold and hollow.
We had our moments, of course. You can always pull out moments of pure magic, even when all you can see ahead of you is endless despair. And we did fall in love eventually, slowly, but never all at once.
Remember my favorite band? We never smoked after we made love, but nowadays all I do is watch the smoke as it escaped my lips.
I never finished downloading the discography of Joy Division. Somehow, I always knew love will tear us apart.
Last night, I slept well. As people who have read my recent post on sleep would know, sleep doesn't come easy to me. No matter how hard I try, it is a rare day when I have a sound and fitful sleep.
Did I tell you I have migraines? Well, I do. One of my earliest memories is of screaming at night as my Mamma and Papa would cradle me in their arms as I tried to sleep.
Nowadays it's still the same. Except I don't scream. Not that I don't want to. But I am not a kid any longer and I have better control over my emotions.
This is what a migraine attack feels like. Initially it's just a small tap at the back of your head. And then it gets louder. And louder. Imagine this. Someone is drilling into your skull. No anasthetic has been given. There is nothing to dull the pain. In those moments, it takes the last of my strength to not scream at the top of my lungs.
And the other thing? I dream a lot. Too much for my liking. Mostly they make no sense. And that's okay. Dreams aren't supposed to make sense. Most dreams I forget. Instantly, quickly. Some dreams though, they are stuck in my head and are as real as it can get.
Like the time I dreamed of colliding into an iron spike, face first. Or the time, my dog ran away from me in the park and I had to chase him. Or the time I dreamed that Juan Mata scored the winning goal in the Manchester Derby.
And every time I have these dreams, I wake up with a start. And I can't go back to sleep again.
Last night though, I had a good sleep. And that's enough. For now, at least.
There are edges, and then there are lines. And I have been on the open road so long, I don't even remember when the two became blurred.
I will tell you something about lines and edges. They creep up on you. You walk, and the end beckons. But you don't stop. Because you can't. Because there's that mirage in front of you. The one you call hope.
I walk that line everyday. I watch the red blood fall from the edges.
And I will tell you something else. Once you cross that line, once those edges come off.. there is no coming back.