Life happens when your weary mind consciously keeps asking for more cheesiness and in the same exact micro-second your heart slow-marches into realness. Both championed, both loathed, whether it’s instant or extensive, fake or ironically organic.
That particular cross-hair point when everything has detailed sense and the never-ending chess maze is won by logic, thanks to aging mind and tired soul seeking of so-called truth. That sick boring thing called love becomes drop-dead nauseous, fresh-baked dressed as evergreen irony and praised as eternal answers of games.
You know you want it to be yours. To feel it crushed and melted into pieces of regrets. Blabbering source of subjectivity raised for the sake of loneliness. You know you fashion those values into something inevitable. It grows inside your wound, it laughs at your sorrow and it becomes your own best version of ogres, resembling the pain from the past and the fear of future from your head.