Drowning. Revisited.

"Those make a profession of deceiveing, not our eyes; but our judgement, and of corrupting and adulterating the essence of things"

I can't believe I let you in. Again. You're nothing I haven't felt before. My mind is flooded, but I don't want to drown again.
But I crave it, like no other. I keep trying to find excuses for how I feel about you - how I've always felt about you.  [truth is: all those excuses are a lie.] Its not something I can explain. This is the first time ever that I cannot put what I am feeling into worlds. It has never been this physically impossible and that scares me. I guess what scares me the most is the fact that you make me feel something so strong that it is undeniable. Your eyes, amber, kind, and in mine - an ache, just like I remember. Everything the same as before; everything totally different. The one thing I forgot was how your lips felt against mine (how good your lips felt against mine). You fed me the same old bullshit - comforting in a way - familiar. Everything familiar. I've been here a thousand times before. You're a realist, I'm a romantic. Somehow taht machienery collides and creates something beyond perfection, gears turning, flawlessly oiled. There's something about you, that I can't let go of. That I can't find in anyone else. No one else's lips match mine like yours do. There is something about you that I can't let go of. There is no escape. There is no escape. There is no escape. [If I found one, would I even take it? Would I leap out that door, hit bottom, and start running? Would I leave it all behind?] (I doubt it) The beauty of its undineable. It almost makes it worth it, almost.

‎"Addictionis the hallmark of every infatuation-based love story. It all begins when th object of your adoration bestows upon you a heady, hallucinogenic dose of something you never dared to admit that youwanted- an emotional speedball, perhaps, of thunderous love and roiling excitement. Soon you start craving that intense attention, with the hungry obsession of any junkie. When the drug is withheld, you promptly turn sick, crazy and depleted (not to mention resentful of the dealer who encouraged this addiction in the first place but who now refuses to pony up the good stuff anymore- dispite the fact that you know he has it hidden somewhere, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free). Next stage finds you skinny and shaking in a corner, certain only that you would sell your soul or rob your neighbors just to have that thing even one more time. Meanwhile the object of your adoration has now become repulsed by you. He looks at you like you're someone he's never met before, much less someone he once loved with high passion. The irony is, you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You're a pathetic mess, unrecognizable evento your own eyes. So that's it. You have now reached infatuation's final destination- the complete and merciless devaluation of self."

There's something so powerful about darkness. Night masks whatever you will it to mask. It makes everything more illuminated, even though that sounds paradoxical. Never, ever saw it coming at all. Every moment was that moment, every day was that day, every second was that second, and I've lost myself again. Am I ready to be let down, time after time, just like before? How much more can one person take before completely breaking? It comes and goes in waves, but those waves are so powerful, I have no choice but to ride them out. I am only led to wonder why, why I try. I just want back in your head. I'm not gonna lie, I want you for mine. I can't even slow this down, let alone stop this. If I had any sense, I guess I'd fear this, and rethink a minute, but I can't shut it now because there's something in it.
I've given you that look a thousand times before, "I know you're holding something back, I know that look. I've know you long enough, I can read you like a book."
         "I build each one out of glass so you can see me inside of them, I suppose. Or you could just leave the image of me in   the background, I guess, and watch your own reflection superimposed."
I lie awake and think of you, but you're nowhere, you're nowhere. I know you feel it too. There's something about the look in your eyes - they give you away. I wish I could break the surface, more than just ocasionally.

"What if I can't go back? What if I died in the crash? What if the ride was worth it? I mean, who wants to trudge through life, doing everything just right? Taking no chances means wasting your dreams. How can I explain the pure, chilling rush of wanting to something so basically not right? No fear. No guilt. How can I explain purposely setting foot on a path so blantenly treacherous? Was the fun in the fall?"

Are we getting closer, or are we just getting more lost?