It's not as if there's no one else. Life is a basket of choices. A basket, I say. The music is just there to encourage us to look at it perhaps as a basket of pretty flowers, or green, or gold, or perhaps smiles. At the bottom of every smile is a mouth full of cavities, but the lesson is, as always, don't throw out the rose petals with the manure.
We choose, to smell the flowers, because otherwise all there is is shit.
We choose to move on, because otherwise all there is is regret.
Love is not made of regret. Love is made of sad sighs and longing. Heartache that throbs so bad you could cry. So do, because then the tears, they fall to the ground, and you know what that means.
Something will sprout out of the piece of heart you left on the spot of past you finally chose to move on from.
It didn't really hurt that much, did it? It felt a little empty. You didn't know which way was 'on'.
You didn't know what to do with your fingers after there was nothing left to clutch. You didn't understand why nothing hurt anymore.
That's why you cried, you see.
That's what the tears were for. Are for.
When there's nothing else, your head makes them. From beating hearts that no longer have anything to beat around, and empty smiles that no longer have any sadness to hide behind,
and wishes. That sprout out of the place where there once was someone.
Someone who left. Someone who didn't know better than to let you go, so you let them go.
And sometimes, your fingers will twitch. In the middle of the night, long after you've forgotten. You'll open your eyes; you'll look for something. Something you know you lost. Something you know you need. Something you... don't remember.
And maybe, maybe there'll be a tear left.
Maybe you'll fill your twitching fingers with sheets. Maybe you'll feel around inside and find only damp. But see, it's then, that you must remember, that you can't go back. You mustn't. You only remember what the music is asking you to.
It wasn't really that beautiful. He wasn't really that perfect. There's nothing there.
Go back to sleep.
We choose, to smell the flowers, because otherwise all there is is shit.
We choose to move on, because otherwise all there is is regret.
Love is not made of regret. Love is made of sad sighs and longing. Heartache that throbs so bad you could cry. So do, because then the tears, they fall to the ground, and you know what that means.
Something will sprout out of the piece of heart you left on the spot of past you finally chose to move on from.
It didn't really hurt that much, did it? It felt a little empty. You didn't know which way was 'on'.
You didn't know what to do with your fingers after there was nothing left to clutch. You didn't understand why nothing hurt anymore.
That's why you cried, you see.
That's what the tears were for. Are for.
When there's nothing else, your head makes them. From beating hearts that no longer have anything to beat around, and empty smiles that no longer have any sadness to hide behind,
and wishes. That sprout out of the place where there once was someone.
Someone who left. Someone who didn't know better than to let you go, so you let them go.
And sometimes, your fingers will twitch. In the middle of the night, long after you've forgotten. You'll open your eyes; you'll look for something. Something you know you lost. Something you know you need. Something you... don't remember.
And maybe, maybe there'll be a tear left.
Maybe you'll fill your twitching fingers with sheets. Maybe you'll feel around inside and find only damp. But see, it's then, that you must remember, that you can't go back. You mustn't. You only remember what the music is asking you to.
It wasn't really that beautiful. He wasn't really that perfect. There's nothing there.
Go back to sleep.
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