I don’t write the way I do anymore, the way I did over at my LiveJournal (Aunt Anne if you’re reading this;)  Perhaps the scrutiny I provided faded away along with the cynicalities and the omniscient regrets, being happy didn’t give you the right to speak of sadness and sorrows, for who are you to harbour them, you of the happy lot?

Not that I don’t feel them now, I do, but I do not give voice to them. It’s almost sacrilege, to ruin all the happyness and the love I receive, for to me, to pen those words now equates to committing them. How does one provide a true account if one does not first feel? Yet it seems silly to have such feelings evoked through 3rd-party incidents, to feel sorrow through another, to tear for regrets and sorrows not of one’s own, to live life in another’s life?

Methinks it’s the influx of thought-provoking movies like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and 14 Blades (yes I’m a super huge crybaby) that makes me rethink about the fragility of promises. I’m just glad that I have G for now.

Good night, sleep tight and don’t let the nightmares bite.

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