trigger and happy belong together.

The problem with love, or any other feelings of the sort, is that when you fall into it, it’s like this kind of succulent melting, but when you fall out of it, it’s not at all like rebuilding ice cubes out of the juices, but rather evaporation, condensation, and then always the rain again, but not the one that’s really strong and heavy, which seems like white noise, except not empty, but the slow and treacherous one, that makes you think there’s something there, except not. 

And on a not quite so different note, the problem with the past is that it gives you what it didn’t give you when you needed it. Nothing that happens in the past can be taken away, that’s for damn sure. It’s an amazing gift, in the end. The issue is that, although the past is done and over and settled (after all, you can’t get it back, you can just try and gather and live with whatever good you have gotten from it, spiritually, emotionally and all that), it reaches out and infects your present. The sneaky little pervert. It makes you value most the things you lost in that said past. Because when they’re lost, said things suddenly become perfect in your head again. Like they never rusted. Like they never broke. Memories make you see them rosier than a newborn’s cheeks. Brighter day by day. They are made of dreams of how wonderful things could have been because they don’t suffer the indignity of actually still existing, if you ask me. Of being real. Of having flaws. Of breaking and deteriorating. Only the things you no longer have will always be perfect.  And that’s really shitty.