For long I've been avoiding this.
To reveal one's feelings had long been synonymic of exposure to danger, of the possibility to the other to make a puppet of us. How can you expect my heart to be wholly tale-telling? Plainly I've been trying to seem, to show what I cannot tell. I'm sorry for not being able to speak, but the words I'd like to say, you should not hear but from someone else. From now onwards, I shall say nothing more for spelling is against your very nature.
If not damned to death, at least you're to remain nameless as is my feeling.
It is not fancy, though sadness derives from its non-reality.
It is not sorrow either because a simple sight rejoices me.
Nor shall delusion be it thought to be like, neither terror is the deceptiveness of our relation at the source.
The only word by which it could be called is the one forbidden.
To feel is the only thing allowed still and to stay still it is to be, buried in our selves like the unaccounted words in the bookshelves of my heart.
To us, to me, today and tomorrow, you're hopelessly the bust which no bird shall ever sit upon.
I gape you.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário