I've been thinking about writing my own story, but what would be the point, it's so boring...
I would have to edit so much stuff, leave out so many details...
Why did I promise not to tell? Me and my stupid values! Why is it that whenever I make a promise I find it almost imposible to break it...
I wish I could break everything around me, just to see what it feels like. A moment in which I could contemplate the destruction I made around me...
I wish it wasn't a secret that I loved him... maybe that't the whole key to letting him go; been able to tell the world that I loved a man who is to become a priest sometime soon, maybe that's what I need... Probably... That might be the reason as to why I keep writing about him...
I haven't heard or said - hell! not even written - his name in a very long time... so long...
If I had learnt something about life is that time heals everything, resolves everything, washes away everything; the incesant flow of time that cannot be stopped, cannot be hinder... I believe even God abids by it... But when will it be my time? When will it be the day when I wake up and not a sinle memory of it all will come flying back at me and slap me in the face?
I sometimes caught myself counting the days we havent's seen each other, almost in the same way an alcoholic would do about his days without alcohol...
Tick, tack, tick, tack... I don't really hear that sound anymore; I use to have a clock in my wall, but then one night I couldn't sleep and the incesant ticking of the clock wouldn't go away... it just kept passing, moving, bringing and taking minutes... but always leaving me behind...
The clock is still on my wall, both the minute and hour hands are still in the same hour... It stopped... I made it stop...