I am so rich with the things I neither want nor need. But what I want and what I need comes together in one tiny package only. And in that package, which seems more like an ancient treasure chest, carefully decorated with golden ribbons to signal not even half the worth in it, resides the love I felt but never showed. I’m craving it like it was my last meal. I depend on it like it was my oxygen to breath. I like my movies with unexpected plot twists, but it doesn’t seem surprising anymore that it’s exactly that I lack the most. It’s like the god of love is drunk twentyfourseven and misses every shot aimed at me with the bow that made even the worst enemies to hopeless lovers. So I just see all the people around me forming bonds, while I deform into this depressing mess, incapable of anything that isn’t either sleeping or crying or maybe both. It’s like the excalibur sword I’m not supposed to draw out of the ground. And it’s the ground where I lay weeping, unable to escape the reality that you and me will forever be never crossing parallels.