Wasting words.

I wonder why, of everything one could write about, I am only able to write about relationships (or their endings). It seems an awful waste to use such gift, that is the the ability to write, to do it regarding such trifle matters.

Not only that but I also wonder why all these doubts even arise. Why all the moments repeat themselves with no random cause. I wonder why can’t I grow up after all the mistakes I keep making, why is everything is always so irrational.

And then I think of you. Of how I loved to kiss you, of how I loved to be sitting on your lap and you kept kissing my neck line and all I wanted was for you to pick me up and take me to my room. And how you knew it and did it without me even saying a word. Then I also remember how I met others that did the same, or different, it doesn’t actually matter, and I think that this was all irrelevant. How you should be irrelevant. And why aren’t you.

You see, the thing is that, we, the overthinking ones, need to find reasons for everything, or solutions, or future scenarios that magically solve everything. That’s why I always pretend to believe that if it is meant to be, sooner or later, it will happen. Too bad I don’t actually believe that 'us' will ever happen. Too bad I still remember the empty look I saw in you the last time we were together, or how I felt that it didn’t make sense at all, or how suddenly we both just felt so uncomfortable for being together and how I felt hurt by it.

And now I am wondering what kind of writer I am, what kind of writer could I be if I actually wrote. What kind of person am I, what kind of person people would think I am, if they read all I that wanted to be able to write, and knew that everything they were reading was true.

I kissed another person on that balcony, on that kitchen, on that dinning room... I sat on his lap and let him kiss my neck line. And then I got up and I went to bed; without him. Cause even if I did all this I still felt that room as being yours, as being ours. The same way that I know that it never was.

Stupid thing, this, of relationships, or their endings. Stupid thing, this belief, or this disbelief, of thinking, of overthinking, of feeling, of not being able to feel, of writing, even if… even if it should be done in a beter subject.