The stranger who was yourself

You will love again, the stranger who was yourself
- Derek Walcott's Love After Love

It's so strange you know,
getting so completely absorbed in what feels like another life.

It was like,
it was a completely different person writing.
Someone killing herself, every single day for the wrong she'd done him.

The guilt wasn't unwarranted of course, not really.
But gosh, there were like three pages worth of entries in that category!
Each page having about fifteen entries, mind you.

I suppose i did, and still do, have a problem of repeating myself like a complete fuckhead.

It was sobering, reading all those entries. Having the wave of emotions that only come with you tiptoeing along the edge of feeling that you have not felt in ages and would rather not plunge into all over again.
I was such a sad, different person then.

Really, I was.

If i read my own blog, as some random stranger and like, read it.
I'd feel such sorrow for the author.

Okay, maybe it's because i was burying myself in the category labeled Love n War, instead of bothering with my other everyday stuff.
But i mean, the bulk of my blog posts were in this very same category.
I couldn't have been a very happy person now could I?

hmmmm