It was over before it even started, my blissful reality with you. Because bliss, as I have come to realise, is not about what you need. Rather, it's about what you want, what you really really want, and that thin faint fading line in between. It's about expectations, savagely penetrated by the fear of the unknown, like the death of a synapse you never saw coming. It's about pretending not to give a fudge (non explicit version) when in fact that's all you ever really do. Because the truth is, as much as you needed it, I didn't want it. Not like that. And yes, a red rose doesn't always bloom in a deserted desert, but who am I to tell it not to? Who am I to tell a bird not to fly, a rainbow not to be colourful, a story not to have a happy ending? And the funny thing is, before it started, I think I remember seeing the roots, the wings, and probably even the colours, but what I didn't get to see, what I hindered myself from seeing, was the ending. So between you and me, I'm glad it was over before it even started, because god knows what would have happened if it ever did.
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