In almost a masochistic type of way, I can't help but romanticize even the smallest of tragedies.
The feeling of being trapped, and the frustrations of being able to take only shallow breaths,
they freeze and shatter me into wondrous fractals of hope.
Perhaps it is a sort of self-justification, where I can selfishly create myself to be less selfish than I am.
But then again, it could simply be another case of frantic self defense.
And no matter what the elusive cause of it all might be, I can't help but welcome the melancholic feeling that accompanies the longing of the soul.
This subtle feeling that I have nothing left,
the way it feels like everything was all pointless in the end,
and even the way that the winter chill transitions into a spring breeze-
I find it all to be so captivating.
How great would it be,
if I could just sit here and stare at the night sky,
wondering what all the what-ifs would come to be if I had someone by my side.
And how fun it is,
to simply dwell alone on the things that I regret,
and fantasize so painfully about the things I could never have.
And as I continue to delude myself,
I look around to see a beautiful world-
A world that is imperfect in so many ways,
and a world that seemingly exists for ambiguity's sake.
But even as I recognize my own deluded self-ideology,
I can't help but think that it is a beautiful kind of hurt.