Dancing shadows.

 I don't remember how I got here. What led me here, or who, more appropriately. I'm back where I started, it feels like I'm running in circles, trying to escape everything, but failing miserably. The memories are coming back. Those memories dipped in gold, and of course, the ones dipped in black paint. I'm trying to pick up the bits and pieces I never want to forget, the tiny fragments of happiness, but the only ones I'm managing to pick up are those tiny pieces of misery. Everything feels like a faded polaroid. I don't want to live in my memories, but I can't help how I feel. Sometimes, everything comes back to me, but some days, I feel so confused, dazed, as if there isn't a purpose I'm fulfilling. It's like, you were home to me. but I don't recognise this street anymore. I'm constantly running away from my words, and running into yours. I'm trying to find you in the sunlight, despite knowing you'll always dwell in the shadows. I'm tying to comfort myself by saying we're under the same stars tonight, but it doesn't even mean anything anymore. I'm trying to write beautiful verses, lovely stories, but they just end up being unfinished poems and scribbled articles. I'm trying to be kissed by the sun, but I can never cheat on the night. I'm trying to tell myself you wouldn't have been lovely to come home to, but we all know that's not true. I'm trying to hate what I've always loved. I'm trying to find a new definition for marbles, because 'trapped universes' reminds me of you. I'm trying to take back my soul from you, but you've locked it away somewhere so safe. I'm trying to paint a portrait, a portrait of all that overwhelms me so greatly, I'm shouting colours. I'm spitting paint. I'm trying, I'm failing. I'm trying, but my mind is a collection of hastily made euphoric decisions and constant give ups. I'm trying, but I'm too afraid I'll fail. I'm trying, but it feels like I'm using bits and pieces of others' personalities to form my own. I'm craving success, but I'm facing failure. I'm facing pain.

There is, however, this thing about pain, it demands to be felt. Without it, you don't feel alive. Or maybe, pain is just a hard way of knowing you're alive. Pain reminds you that even though you tried so hard, you failed at replacing your heart with an icebox. 

Happiness and little joys.

That girl. That girl who was so afraid of relationships, commitment, allowing someone to love her unconditionally. She, who feared being in love only because of the power it gave the other person over her. To make her, love her; break her. She, who thought she was happy in her own little bubble. She, who thought tennis and fashion were the only things that mattered. That little girl who never sought comfort in anybody but her own self. She, who counted her blessings. She, who thought the power of silence was much greater than the power of speech. She, who was content, if not anything else. She, who stopped expecting anything from people only because she knew it would lead to disappointment. She, who was beautifully fragile. She, who would crack even with the slightest pressure. She, who was cold and lost. She, who found solace in books, long walks and silence. She, who wasn't affected by parties and all that jazz. She, who thought naps and long hot showers could solve all problems in the world. She, who wanted to go to a fancy University.

She changed. For the better, or worse, she didn't know. What she did know, however, was that she felt different. She looked different, her scent, her hair, her clothes, everything was different. All the times that she thought she would never forget now seemed like another person's memory. She let herself be loved, and cared for. She let herself go. Instead of books and walk, she found peace in his words, his scent. She was changing into a different person, she didn't know if she liked it or not, but she was at peace.

She was happy.