Does it break my heart? Of course. Every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of. I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent. Everything changed, and that distance wedged itself between me and my happiness. It wasn’t the world, it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings. It was me and my thinking, the cancer of never letting go. Is ignorance bliss? I don’t know, but it’s also painful to think. And tell me, what did thinking ever do for me? To what place did thinking ever bring me? I think and I think and I think. I’ve thought myself out of happiness a million times, but never once into it I’m mad at myself, not you. I’m mad for always being nice. I’m mad for always apologizing for things I didn’t do. I’m mad for getting attached. I’m mad for depending on you and wasting my time on you. I’m mad for thinking about you, and most of all for not hating you when I should.
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