A wise man once said,
“Our truest life is when we are in our dreams awake.” — Henry David Thoreau

Sometimes I dream of death. Sometimes I see things before they happen. Sometimes I wish I was dead anyways. What’s the point of living when everything you lived for has left? Is there really any emotion of love, of just actions pummelled together to make it look nice?
I’m not sure I understand fully what it means to be in love. I guess I brought this upon myself. I hesitate before making each move, so I know it’s the right thing and yet it’s still wrongdoing.

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.” — Victor Hugo
I’m a musician. A very good one. But in the eyes of many, I seem happy like a child in a toy store, anticipating the time until I’m told to pick out a toy. I’m waiting for my call. But yet the phone never rings. The message is never delivered. So, all I can do now is —what? Wait until you decide you want me back? I haven’t the heart to hold out, to hang on. Love you? Yes. Hate you? No. I disagree with what you think before saying it. Yes. It doesn’t matter though. Even with this depression, I still can’t cry enough tears for you to leave my dying soul. So, when you move on and are happy with the next guy, please understand that you will always have one who never left, but your eyes were too blind to see, your nose too faint to smell, your hearing too deaf to hear me calling your name, but not for him. I’m sorry. So I guess this is it. You said goodbye, I must say it too. Goodbye and though I never meant it, I said it for you.