Never did I fall in love with you. And, though it may be somewhat unwelcome to know, I can not particularly recall falling in ‘like’ with you either. At first I ardently fell for your mystery; a charade, an enigma. I could only conclude your quiet nature was the product of silencing; a mind trapped by infinite unspoken words but muted in world that wasn’t made for them. Then I was struck by the tide of familiarity and found myself attached to what had become conventional in our composition as showcased lovers. My façade became rooted by habit and no longer could I consciously recall the intricate peculiarities which had drawn me to you so ruthlessly; instead I had only the credulous belief that somewhere I loved you as I had believed, in the sincerest of prematurity, so many times before. The final act; realising that there was no mystery to your being. The silence you so characteristically bestow was always merely an echo of your nothing. It was all nothing. Beautiful, corrupt nothing.

Another example of my attempt at ‘creative writing’! I’m not sure I’m quite made for happy tales!


(Here’s me with a butterfly! Excuse the man hands!)