Lain

Broken Promises To Oneself

Do you know whether a day is going to change your
life or not? Can you feel it? When it does, there's so
much interference after; how can you remember?

There have been so many false beginnings, and
beginnings masquerading as ends. So many
instances where something once seemed sent from
heaven and in actuality came from a place far closer to
us. Far deeper. Situations I created inside myself which
were "as thin of substance as the air and more
inconstant than that wind".

But not an eighth as poetic as Shakespeare, in
retrospect; no, none of these. What did they inspire?
Despair. How's that for a pathetic word? Apathy and
self-loathing.

And yet, not this. This has been something different
and altogether new - why, then, shouldn't I be sad to
learn that the outcome will be the same? At least, for a
long time to come.

What did I start out talking about?

I promise myself every midnight that I won't even
speak to the stars about him anymore. And every 4am I
break that promise.

The truth is, despite all my attempts at logic and
reason. . . I'm no good at logic and reason. I love him,
and I can't see any reason good enough not to.

Can't? Or won't?

Because I won't, I can't. And that's all there is to it,
really. That's all there is.