Racing against time, racing with time, sprinting across what i thought was the end.
But is it really?
Then i paced myself, started to observe, learn and apply.
I'm still learning. But I'm not struggling anymore. I'll still get tired, get mad, get frustrated, but I guess it's part and parcel of life.
Words is man's greatest weapon. I should get used it. To you.
It stopped hurting, knowing you cared more for him.
But it still hurts, hearing the words you said, always doubting and everything in his favor. And then, expecting me to do everything your way and in his favor again.
Because its me, I wouldn't, even if it's right. I would still do things, but for you. Just because you gave birth to the woman I loved most in my life. And just because you brought me her, and because you once helped her.
I guess I know you do love me, but probably similar to the way I do.
Because you weren't there when I needed you.
Because when I was tired and went through a phase of my growing up life, you didn't encourage and the one who cared wasn't you.
You listened, not to me but him.
I can't hate you. I won't. But don't compare yourself and her, cause you'll never be the same. I'm sorry for that but that's how it is. I'm done being disappointed and mad.
Thank you for worrying when I was back early in the morning, if I was cold from the air con, and putting blanket over me. Thanks for trusting me and thanks for being there. Thank you for making me feel loved even when you're not my family. But you are now, in my heart.
I could feel you dropping him level by level into his own world but I can't save him, cause you're drowning him. I can't stop you, cause then I'm not sure what would happen. Sigh.
Please please please stop doing everything for him.
He can find his keys, you don't have to place it in the exact place where he left it/usually puts it.
He can get his own breakfast. Don't bring it right to his mouth.
He can take care of himself.
Don't worry about his stuff, his food, his everything. ._.
It's getting out of hand. This is absurd.
