Words don’t always come out like you want them too. But I suppose everyone has this figured out by now.
Even words directed to yourself. We lay in the dark room and we think to ourselves and we tell ourselves things in slow drawls and whispers. But at times, it’s not like one can truly believe them because sometimes those things you tell yourself at night are just that — slow drawls and whispers, repeated long enough just for you to believe them in that momentary lapse between consciousness and unconsciousness. Words that don’t mean enough to make it through the day where reality happens. It’s an intricate shadow play — between superfluous light from street lamps and passing cars shining in and getting cut through by soft curtain movements.
Funny how those nights are the nights when we feel most vividly our emotions that preside, believing so fully in that authority.
Funny how we always want those nights to last longer than they really should, hoping maybe, just maybe those words with “meaning” will spill through when everything’s awake again.
They always say that the night holds secrets. Silent thoughts that only surface for him to grasp, to hold it inside of him. It’ll be nice to think that those words aren’t just for us but for him as well. Everything is so easy then to let go, before your vulnerability. Knowing that your secret’s — the words you tell yourself — are safe.
Everything will be alright.