I read the things I wrote a few years ago. I was young and in love. I'm still trying to decide if the things I said were true and the decisions I made were the right ones.
Few years later and things changed. Some were good, some were bad. I don't remember falling in love with anyone anymore. I don't remember writing about someone as much as I did about you. The people I write about now aren't constant. They leave. But you my friend, you never left. Instead I find myself full of hate every now and then.
I don't miss you but I miss what we had. It's embarrassing really to see yourself writing about someone who doesn't even matter anymore. I hate myself. To write is something sacred and what we write is precious. But to write about you, I've lost all my inspirations. My past is the only thing inspiring me.
To be honest with myself I'll let you in any day, any time. To go through again what we did. The pain, the pleasure and the constant self doubt. Gosh the stupid things I think of doing, it's endless.
