The end keeps coming back.

Sometimes I want to give everything up, buy a cello, learn it and join an orchestra. Then the orchestra will travel, and so will I.

All of your friends are gone and there is only water in cellar.

Do people ever get accustomed to their loneliness? What do they call it once they do? The suffering that entails loneliness, the quintessential drowning in an abyss that defines loneliness, would cease to exist once someone gets used to it.

Sometimes I think of you, for you, so much that it almost makes the pain fade away as my conscious self begin to disappear. Nights like these are especially rough as I try to slowly cut you out of my life. In theory, the procedure always seem like I can succeed a clean, surgical removal: stitch up the wounds, disinfect, move on, repeat. Synonymously, go to school, get shit done, focus on everything else but you, sleep, move on, repeat.

But it doesn’t happen like that. I’m tearing away chunks of myself that have grown into you with a chainsaw. It’s messy and painful and I can’t even bother with letting myself heal as I just soak myself in alcohol. In real life, I find myself fighting back tears when I walk along the halls to class. My motivation to get shit done is so I can go home and drink and think some more. I am a shell that temporarily resonates with the voices I surround myself with so I don’t think of you. Eventually I find sleep with two ears full of tears. Repeat.

Why do these two hearts that yearn for each other build walls instead of bridges?