Two months and three weeks since the day I fit five years into five suitcases and walked away into thirty something more years of instability and unpredictability awaiting ahead. After too many of something called long distance relationships, I’ve accustomed myself with leading a life of no expectation and commitment.

Isn’t it sad? When you are in love and can’t really sugarcoat yourself with future and dreams and plans? That you have to prepare your heart a box full of band-aids, just in case of any possibility? That even when you are the maddest in love with someone and just kinda periodically have to slap yourself in the face to not fall too hard when things go sour? Sadness, indeed I think.

Trust is too fancy and luxurious of a definition that sometimes you yearn for it so much to the point of faking it to your very own self and every surrounding ones. But know what? Just like any other self-fantasy, when moments of glory pass, no one else around cares enough to go deeper than the superficiality and you, till the very end of every single existing moment, know very well that you are living a hollow shell.