It's a dark, night. Everything's in black and white. A well off man with bags of confidence goes through the crowd. He talks with another man before going into a building. After he opens a second door, we cut to a play being represented in colour. A woman in a red dress moves balletically across the stage to a sofa where she takes the covers off to reveal some books. This motion is repeated twice and once she picks up the books, a man with a Belfast accent holding a gun tells her to put the book down insisting "We don't want to get hurt do we?"
It seems blackly comical that I persist in loving you even after the time has long since past. You misreading situations from the past like time immemorial. You wanted to be queen, you wanted to have the same feeling that destroyed me as a teenager. Petty jealousies run rife with you. Now you've got someone who has the same petty jealousies you once had. I'm just the enemy who gets in the way. The feelings I believed in but was always too muted for your liking - too timid, no grandstanding acts of love and devotion. You pinpoint the negatives without looking at the reasons why. And if you did you'd twist them to suit your agenda. But then again, this time isn't your fault. You got ambushed when your guard was low and I would've worn you out with my medical provisions. It just hurts when I'm the one who gets in the way. My bitterness has always been a part of me. I've said we'll still be friends but I sometimes wonder if that's the right decision. The...
Comments
Post a Comment