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Staring off at the blank, white canvas that is a page, I wonder: "What am I going to write about today?...Should it be about inner torment? No. Should I go with 'deep, dark, depressing thoughts'? Nehh, did that last week. Hmmm...I know! I'll write about you again..."



"Forever,
Only to somehow find,
Only to realize on my own that
Love is real.
I don't
See what they see when I look at you, or don't.
Hell, I'm lucky to see you at all."



Maybe they're right. It is foolish to think these things, or feel this way.
But I do know one thing, and that is:
We're not foolish for feeling how we feel.
Nor are we foolish for believing in it.
We'd be just as foolish as they are if we let all of this go to waste, let it die.
So let me love you now, like I never have before; in high hopes that some day, I can learn to love myself so much more.



But of course, that's just me being foolish.