Matt Murdock (219)

So we seem to be entering the same old place.
The place we hope upon hope not to jinx ourselves into by occasionally acknowledging it's existence. For a moment, it seemed like it would work out, but love or like or simple fondness is, for me at least, much like a Stooges short- no matter what the set up or how crazy and fun it seems to be- they all end the same way.
Perhaps I'm overreacting or jumping the gun.
Perhaps there is a reason for the turn.
There could be a call at any moment...

When the toxic levels of disappointment and rejection have washed over you in the amounts they have over me, you have no choice but to accept your blindness and hope the other senses compensate.
Welcome to Hells Kitchen.

The effort is one sided, the concern is nil, and excuses are moot. Once again you're playing out the scenarios in your head, hoping that they will, at least once, provide you with the Hollywood ending you have convinced yourself that you've earned.
You're imagining the call that explains the silence.
The call that explains everything and finally allows you to move on.
You deserve- at the very least, you deserve that, right?
As always, though, you find yourself getting over the break-up of a relationship that only existed in your mind.
And it is very sad how, you say to yourself again almost like clockwork, how quickly affection turns to resentment.
you sigh, you drink, you accept your status.
The silence is deafening.
It's even worse when you're blind.