On nights like these, I think of all the times you made me cry. I think of all the arguments (although rare) we had. I remember the days when I am actually mad at you but pretended that everything’s fine. I remember all the hurt, all the suspicions I had, all the times I closed my eyes and told myself that everything was perfect. I remember thinking how unlike you were compared to me, how I could never get you to talk about things that really mattered. I remember how I really wanted to tell you how lost I was, but you did not understand. On nights like these, I recall the unhappy moments.
Because otherwise I would cry thinking of all the other moments.
There’s something strangely perfect about taking a photo through a dirty window. It’s telling you that although things may seem just so hopeless at the moment, all you need to do is wind down the window to see everything as it really is.
Speaking of photographs, funny how people base how happy you are on the photos they see. They don’t know that photographs are the worst form of expression; that what you see in a photograph is almost always not true at the moment. How in the moment the photographer turns his camera to you an artificial grin would automatically light up your face. That the second he clicks the camera the world stops, capturing forever the moment of deception. And how a second right after that the world goes back to how it was before.