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Except for that one time.
You remember the time, you were there. I sat in the bar in a city that wasn’t mine and I listened to music and I wrote. I wrote about you and I wrote about us, and then I wrote about life. I wrote about friends and I wrote about love. And I never understood about family, but yet you read it as if I did.
I wrote it like it meant something, I wrote as if you cared. I bought a beer, and then I wrote some more. She told me I have sad eyes. Not had, but have. She told me that I currently have sad eyes and that I always will. Apparently there isn’t much I can do about it, and I don’t think that its necessarily a bad thing. This is who I am, and she loved me for it. But somehow that wasn’t enough for me.
Three years later I can sit in a lonely bar with the flies and the swine, I can put on sappy music and I can remember her and us and you. You’re more important than either of us, or both of us combined. And we’re more important than you could ever hope to be. We are life. We’re your life and we’re our life, and we’re that asshole sitting over there, that guy who wants to fight me cause I was making fun of his team earlier, we’re his life. We’re mostly his life. And he’s way more a part of ours than we’d ever want to admit.
But this is life.
And we hurt and we struggle and we fight. Just for a half second of breath, just to peak our heads up out of the water for a breath of fresh air, just a hint of freedom. Something new and clean and pure. Something that wasn’t given to us, but something we found for ourselves. Something true.
And its fun, this life.