Retrospection is a mind-fucking reality. Its a realisation that's peeping in a bit too late. I cannot sit here, battling with fever, and try to recall the good, the bad and the ugly things that have hit me in the year that's ending in half an hour. There are times when the emo, daft child in me sat victimsed, crying and loathing every entity with a fucked up cynicism. And there were times, she chose to be a bitch. One question, does self happiness and peace count more than sympathy, care and concern?
This year was the first time I was in love and the first time I chose to be out of it. With misandry ruling, what could have been a peaceful and exciting tryst with newness, things just, well, went out of track. And there is a need, a very desperate, frantic need to run away from anything unstable. The feeling I cherish and like the most is constance. Stability, the works, that's my zone. I cannot dabble with drama, and if too much is offered to me, I make a quick exit.
I was in love once, and it hurts that THAT will never happen to me, ever again.
With the augmentation of drama in this space, I'm making a move.
Happy new year, world. Let there be peace.
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