It’s strange how far we have grown apart. We talk, for we have to, being scared of the silence that looms so loud. Yet while we talk, we check ourselves, our words, turning them over in our minds and praying that they won’t be misread, misunderstood. And mulling over the words we hear, trying not to read too much, trying not to find dual meanings. When at the crux of it all, the words don’t matter anymore, unless it’s fodder for meaningless but harmful chatter for the idle times and idle minds. Anger battles despair when we cannot charter back the path to the when and where it started to disintegrate. But anger hurts. A derisive laughter is startled out of me, when I realize it’s better spending this self-destructive emotion on ones who would matter. Ones actually worth being loyal to, worth caring for, losing for, dying for. Even if they weren’t with you anymore. The ones who never lied. And that wasn’t us. Give me one truth and I will forgive all your lies.  But the time’s past now, and then you would just lie further propagating your own imagined scenario of how things should be, had you been the puppeteer. We ceased to matter, or maybe we had never begun. How can one love someone, and not even know who the person is? It’s so tough to reconcile, for the heart and the head, even when both know that the hour’s gone by and our time is up. But the pain comes back in different doses and intensities. The sad truth? The cynic is as gullible as she always was, and the lessons of love never abated, they only changed, into lessons of hate.