At least awake.

Little lies are still lies. It's surprising how people, or perhaps their mere presence, can alter thoughts and twist words. It's disappointing how easy it is to give in to illusions situations require and dictate. It's frustrating how inevitable it seems to unwrite scribbles of unclaimed promises. It is, though the word is itself so, tiring to write everything in bold that there is already nothing not trite.

Petty mistakes are still mistakes. The slightest spark of agreement can swallow boundaries, puke them out later as mere lines and points, shrunk into a distant memory of what was. And what should be. The strongest reluctance can trigger the silliest, most wrong things, directed at all directions so there is no escape. The most basic and common actions, in a different frame, can crush the tiniest sense of respect and space. That, I shall never allow.

Trips are still downfalls. It's extremely disappointing that being lost is almost becoming an everyday thing. It's a shame to gain attention for making sound out of hollow. A month ago things weren't this way. Or at least someone isn't. The urge to stay out of comfort zone flees when there is a chance to drown in reveries. Time then extends itself to a little more than what is planned until the exact numbers are forgotten until the next day. A new week starts and the urge that has fled comes back. At the wrong time. At the wrong place. Almost always.

Distant past is still past. Some people try to forget to forgive. Others fake-ly forgive and never forget. It's funny now that there is even a term for it - past. Because time is meant to still exist after it does. Or maybe because it is allowed to rest somewhere in the head, so someday when things and situations and people are becoming familiar it can be searched and remembered. And then you tell me what. Because what I do is I grasp it and try to understand. Because what purpose is there in the past than for us to learn. But you tell me what. Because people can make mud out of it, throw it at the faces of others. This is what was, they say, and this is what is. They are the only difference, perhaps. Because they are the only difference they see. Because they are the only difference they accept.

After putting all these into words I have to ask myself one thing. Is this really how I choose to feel alive?

Perhaps once. Let once be enough.