Hopeless

I've decided that in order to reinstate myself among Movellians, my best bet is to write a series of narrative revolving around the >Ahem< completely fictitious love of my life. And my hypothetical lack of succes with her. Enjoy :D

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1. Addiction

There's a time, a lovely time, a time when you're young, and free, and don't have a worry on this Earth, and everything is fine.Then there's another day, another time, a time which now seems so small, so far away, so uselessly carefree, and nothing matters any more than it needs to.

But what happens when one day, you see someone, and they aren't who you think them to be? What happens when, by some miracle, you blink, and suddenly something clicks in your mind, cogs whirr, something somewhere that you didn't know you had, something you didn't know you could feel is thee, in the pit of your stomach, and suddenly, you want it to say. Suddenly, you're worried about how you look and what you say and what your breath smells like. Suddenly you wonder if your hair looks okay.

Suddenly, presented with this fallen star, you look back at them, and the feeling comes back? The feeling comes back, and you like it. It's a feeling you want more of. It's like a drug, you know you shouldn't, but suddenly you're wetting your lips and wanting more.

You start to live for it, and start to realise that every day is just another chance you have to get that feeling, that beautiful feeling. Nothing else matters anymore. You don't care about work, you don't care about school. You don't care if you're late or early, and you don't care about anything except for this newfound addiction. But it's got problems. What happens when you're not there, indulging? What happens when you're denied the rush you so crave? What happens when she stops giving you those beautiful smiles, stops kindling that fire? What happens when you no longer have that feeling?

Well, something dies. Something beautiful dies inside you. The cogs rust. The fire is doused. You turn inwards on yourself. You cry yourself to sleep every night, and begin to hollow. You feel incomplete, and that's when you are finally certain. This addiction is killing you, slowly, but maybe you like it. Because it not a craving. It's not dirty, it's not some hobo drugee crouching round a fire in an old factory. It is love. And you want more of it.

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