Maybe it was in the too much I love you’s. Maybe I had to turn every little detail to an essential headline. Maybe you gave a little bit too much of your soul that I didn’t want at all. Maybe I hated the fact that I am a bit of everything around me that I don’t know once I’m all alone whom shall I be. And it scares me more just thinking about it. Maybe it’s the fact that you were the only rays of sunshine that I knew and I was the only rays of moonlight for you too and it was scary how we both needed each other, yet I found it comforting knowing it’s not one sided.
However, when the days get the best of me that’s when I hate it. I hate it all. The fact that we needed each other.
I hated you wanting me to need you when I didn’t even need you to want me. I wanted you to be able to breathe the rays of sunlight without feeling the need to share them with me. ‘Cause then I would have to do the same more often.
Then there is this other thing my mom always thought I can never be good at. Routines. She thought I won’t be able to go a week without mentally breaking down in the bathroom floor because I can’t stand the repetitiveness that I have to live with.
“Routines” She said, “were the only thing I’m bad at and the Earth is good at.”
“Your life is a pile of on-going routine that you’ll have to get used to. Sooner or later, it’ll be like breathing.”
I sucked at breathing. I blamed my hate for routines for everything I failed to continue. I failed at maintaining a relationship. I still fail at maintaining friendships. I fail at pulling my shit together. I fail at living.
I didn’t want to make you a routine. I didn’t want to make you a breathing method. ‘Cause I suck at anything I give too much love to and my only escape is breaking the constancy of this object.
Maybe I had a routine. And it suited me. And I liked it; liked it way too much that it had to go. ‘Cause you see the thing is as much as nothing stays but some things in life become routinely parts of you. And I wasn’t smart enough to distinguish between those who were just a part-time routine and the ones who are never leaving like my low self-esteem.
Maybe I’m not waiting for another discovery of distinguishing which category you’ll fall right under. Maybe one day I’ll get over this but I don’t want to remember you among those things I had to break due to my failure at breathing.
Maybe one day I’ll come across something genius and I’ll be able to admit the fact that it doesn’t have a routine.