I told you i was busy, you thought I was lying, you thought I was trying to avoid you. And worst of all, you thought it’s because I didn’t love you. But I did, with every fibre in my bone. I loved you selfishly and firecely.
When I told you I was busy, I really was. It may not have been in the conventional sense, but I still was. I was busy trying to hold it together, trying not to crumble, trying to breathe. Because sometimes, most times, I get so lost in the gloom around me and it engulfs me. Tears fill my eyes like a stream after it rains. And i can’t even move.
I was busy trying to feed my faith and starve my fears, for I am nothing without my dreams, without the fire in my soul and the spark in my eyes. So I was busy because I was trying to fall asleep before I could fall apart. I was busy fighting depression for hope, because sometimes, most times, the existence of the former threatens the reality of achieving the lattter.