Why do i like to read sad diaries so miuch?

why am i so obsessed wtih depresson.

i write sad songs and poor poetry that seeps into and out of me like a leak in the rof and i bemoan my loss over and over again, even when none is to be had

iused to write love poems

love poems of the joys of it all. Of howhappy love could be

because

at the time it hought love was no mroe than joy. Joy wrappe around another person.

now i lookl at those poems and laugh at how trite i was., how talentless. one dimensional, flat and pale of meaning. i read my old poems and want nothing of what they say . .. i Cry out that i do nott want this silly7 love the way i once wrote of it

and i cry silently in bed a night and tell no one i want it. I tell no one i want the silly superficial love, jsut once, jsut a bit . . .

i fall for other people i move on with life and yet still . . i thinkof him. I thinkof myself growing old, and it isnt with anyone with whom i am currently involved, currently interested him . .. i see myself growing old . . .

with him

he who has always been there, since before i knew his face ti seems. But what of the things i told myself tha ti didnt love him that i cannot be with him . . all of this is so true

i did not lie, in all honesty i did not. What was between us ended long ago and i have no interest in restarting it . . .

then why do i see myself growing old at his side

at the side of someone i once thought i would never leave who i later thought i would never return to, not that way. yet my minds eye betrays me when it hink ofthe future he is there, . . . and not in a platonic way.