Love is a burning thing…

ring of fire

Love is a burning thing
And it makes a fiery ring
Bound by wild desire
I fell into a ring of fire

I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns,
the ring of fire
The ring of fire’

Fortune or misfortune ? All I know is I wallow in sadness ever since. As I come by your side no utterance may come out. Love or hate you ? They say there is always a man to save you from another, but as he may he might as well be ready to destroy. Too jaded have I become… like a woman who loves a man she never touches or barely sees, only writes about, or keeps memories of. In your presence I feel insecure and alone.You disappear and fall out of my grasp. It seems like I am drowning in loneliness as long as you’re not mine. Drowning, going down, down down… and it burns just enough to make you pleased.

Now and then people choose to harden their heart against pain.. but isn’t it only fear of love and loss of it ? I’ve grown too obsessed with longing to erase my loneliness, to flush away my apparent grief. It’s madness how people will hurt each other even for the smallest things. And yet… the specter of you followed me everywhere I go, no matter how I fight the thought of you. Fighting one’s feels… worst mistake. Feels are the only possible truth you can hold on to, and what holds truth upon you is the only possible arm to destroy. Mother always thought me to be true to myself, and whenever I did not, only this was enough to instill further self-hatred, eventually pushing, on and on, towards a stifling loneliness…

We’re in one way or another only facets of the same coin; the type of people who dive into the bottom and yet, keep shallow relationships for fear of failure. Not once have I thought you were blatantly a fool, for never trusting women. You are, at best, a puerile and (terribly) discourteous misogynist. And, believe me, if there was an equivalent word against men, I would call myself the same, although I have better aptitude to hide my discontent.
Howbeit, under the thick layers of bitterness and seeming non-compassion, there is the figure of the disheartened man or woman ready to love, but afraid to. The idea of love terrifies us, chokes us, abashes us… not compared to others, but compared to our old selves.. We’re too scared to face ourselves if the same mistakes occur over again… I would rather die than cry once more.

You’re the drunk asshole who at best is sinking into a river of lost tracks. You keep pushing yourself until not knowing who you are anymore. And yet… what I only see is a humorous one probably acting it all out like there was never any remorse, with complete crassness and utter disgust.
Yes… Choking is your presence. Double the struggle when not. Like a twist of fate again was your sight. I wish it never happened. Loneliness is much more convenient than madness over how ugly you act and yet how beautiful you are inside, nothing you know of. I would prefer loving you million times from afar.

You’re leaving again, and these thoughts and feels are going back to the shadows again, as you’re gone.

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