Lines from the book i’m not supposed to be writing
#fyp #mentalhealthawareness #poems #love #emotions
I still don’t know why I write.
I just start typing.
Then later I go back and fix the grammar like somehow that makes any of it make sense.
I’ve filled notebooks with what I can only describe as madness.
Page after page.
Thought after thought.
Some of it I don’t even remember writing.
That’s the weird part.
The words are there.
My handwriting is there.
My thoughts are there.
But when I read them back, it doesn’t feel like me.
It feels like reading somebody else’s life.
I don’t know if that’s crazy or not.
Maybe everybody has two sides of themselves.
Like a coin.
One side everyone sees.
One side that only comes out when the room is empty.
I’m just pathetic enough to write both of them down.
Honestly though, I do think I’m growing up.
Not in some inspirational way.
Just slowly letting go of a love I thought was supposed to last forever.
I still love her.
I know I do.
If she called tomorrow and needed something, I’d probably be there.
But I hate her too.
Not because she left.
Because she could.
Because she actually did it.
Because she woke up one day and kept living.
I know that’s unfair.
I know I gave her reasons.
I know I hurt her first.
That’s what makes it worse.
You can be guilty and angry at the same time.
Turns out nobody tells you that part.
I’ve always said I’m not a good person.
Never pretended otherwise.
But she made me care.
That’s probably the worst thing she ever did to me.
Now I know what love feels like.
And I still can’t explain it.
Love is everything.
Love is nothing.
Love makes people stay.
Love makes people leave.
My version of love wasn’t enough.
Maybe it was broken from the start.
Maybe I broke it.
I don’t know.
I just know I miss her.
Not the relationship.
Not who I was.
Just her.
And that’s the part I still can’t shake.
What really gets me is the last look she gave me.
The best way I can explain it is when you’re drifting off to sleep.
That moment where everything slowly fades into nothing.
That’s what it felt like looking into her eyes.
Like something was disappearing.
Like she had already left before she walked away.
Ever since then, nothing has felt the same.
Life goes on.
People move on.
The scenery changes.
The faces change.
The years change.
But honestly?
Nothing really changes.
Just the theme.
The song stays the same.
Only the lyrics are different.
Writing is often a private act that reveals sides of ourselves we rarely show others. From my own experience, putting thoughts on paper can feel like stepping into a shadowy room of the mind, where emotions, memories, and contradictions play out vividly. The author describes filling notebooks with 'madness,' which resonates deeply—I’ve found that the act of writing can sometimes uncover parts of ourselves that even we don't fully recognize. The concept of having two selves—the face we show the world and the one that emerges in solitude—is a poignant reflection. I’ve noticed this duality myself, especially during vulnerable times after a breakup or loss. There is an internal struggle between longing and anger, love and resentment, and it’s normal to carry conflicting feelings simultaneously. It’s comforting to acknowledge that even those who seem strong can break, and that being human means embracing complexity. The poignant image of the last look the author received, likened to drifting off to sleep, captures the slow fading of connection and love. From personal experience, such moments linger in memory, shaping how we view future relationships and ourselves. Letting go of a love once believed to be everlasting is painful but essential for growth. It teaches us about impermanence, healing, and the bittersweet nature of love that both sustains and may leave us. Finally, the acknowledgment that "the song stays the same, only the lyrics are different" reflects how life continues with recurring themes of loss and renewal. Writing, especially poetry and personal reflection, becomes a way to process these cycles and find meaning. For anyone struggling with mental health or emotional turmoil, writing can be a therapeutic outlet, offering clarity and connection to one's inner self.
You are spot on about everyone has two sides - loved the coin analogy. I just discovered you today. Looking forward to more of your posts.