Maybe I am done with this foolish game.
Maybe I am done being your villain.
Maybe I am fucking tired of walking on these eggshells while you hide out in the darkness.
This is not who we are. And this avoidance is not making anything better. Nothing is cooling off. Nothing is healing over time. Nothing. These wounds have only been left to fester. And I tell you, it doesn’t hurt any less than it did from the beginning. All that has begun is a slight numbing, a slight tolerance of pain, a slight means to carry on while these wounds get no better.
It’s fucking pathetic. And I cannot call it growth.
What do you do to deal with these afflictions, my darling? Tell me! Is it blissful? Are you better now? Or is it ignorance that sets you free?
This withdrawal…
I cannot live on with these ailments in my spirit, these emotional burdens that I’m supposed to pretend to accept every time I traverse a certain plain, these injustices that my presence supposedly commits, these denials to harmony.
This romance has lost its flavour. And I’m done with this darkness.
My path is my own, just as your own is yours. But to avoid any crossroads is tiresome folly I’m no longer fond of.
My darling, let’s paint a dearer picture. Because there are certain shades still being blotted about that are truly not to my taste.
I will perform my last act of atonement. After that, let us hope that I’ll finally be free.
-Daniel Roy
Diaries of the Moonlight Hours 