Roses Are Red

Roses Are Red

And she found that she didn't love me, and it was all just the habit of attraction. 


It's easy to get them mixed up. People talk about 'falling in love' but really, it's all just the safe comfort of habit that they fall into. They fall in love with the routine, not each other. Of course, they'll deny this vehemently, but deep down, they know it's true. They grow accustomed to the feeling of being wanted, of finally being relevant to a person other than themselves. They'll enjoy that incredible rush of power over another's emotion, however cynical that may sound. But as people tend to do, they get tired of routine. And when this extended routine meets its overdue end, the hollowness that they feel isn't the pain of lost love. It's merely the absence of habit. 


Love is like a cigarette. The first rush will fade eventually, and all you'll be left with is a habitual monster that is only there for your money and your health. And no, I'm not referring to anyone in particular.


I'm still a romantic, though I wouldn't call myself a hopeless one. Being a 'hopeless romantic' never really made sense to me. Romance is, in essence, pure hopelessness. Romance is surrendering yourself to the possibility of the hopelessness of life alone. Romance is being hopeless enough to create a void in yourself for the minute probability that one day, maybe someone as hopeless as you might come along and fill it. Romance is seeing a beautiful woman across the room and thinking 'Fuck it.' and going there and actually saying 'Hi'. Romance is throwing your hands at chances you know you can't ever reach. 


There's a certain beauty in hopelessness that I don't quite see in love. Love promises hope, but the more hope there is, the more romance dies.


If this was more eloquent I'd have posted it on Tumblr. Oh well.

A Cynic's Prayer

A Cynic's Prayer

Look up.

Let us watch this glorious moment of self-pity riddle our expectations like acid rain sweeping across some dimly lit scrapyard on the crossroads of 'we're fucking lost'. 
The abject heaps of abandoned metal lay bare and naked, facing the sky paralysed. 


Rusted and rusting.  


Crashing rain tears through them at such a delicate pace, running off their surfaces with the intricacy of tunnels carved by ants. The copper tinged haste of metallic tears, metallic blood, and metallic sweat fall to the ground. And so ends the silent slaughter of goodwill. 
Hope wants to be a distant memory, but iron hearts tend to forget.  The only question left to ask is 'Are we dead yet?'. 


It all depends on what you count as living.