hey

You feel like a poem i know by heart. i know you. i want to know more. I'm intrigued like I've never been before. youre different, i don't know how but you are. maybe i do. you don't reciprocate like the rest. you are so painfully yourself. and you live for yourself. it is something i admire much, although i wish sometimes you would live for me instead. i want you to want me back. i feel like I'm locked out. i can see the jungle behind the gates and the bright pink flowers and words - your words, lovely words. but i will never hear them. not directed at me. i will never be allowed in there. maybe it is not as good as i think it is. maybe i will be disappointed and the fluorescent pink is actually just a common type of weed. perhaps i will find you are the same as all others, and my idea of you was never really you. But maybe it is - maybe you are. maybe you are perfectly lovely, just like i think you are. i hope so. maybe one day i can see. Or maybe ill realise that you are not what you seem. perhaps this will be better. "I’m not totally mad at you. I’m just sad. You’re all locked up in that little world of yours, and when I try knocking on the door, you just sort of look up for a second and go right back inside." Haruki Murakami