I don't make promises. All for conscious and rational reasons, at that.

You see, there is a little something called 'shattered enthusiasm', a tiny thing with which connection is rendered utterly impossible. It's not that I feel the need to find excuses. I just want to make things clear.

I'm not your protection for I've never been protected. Harm comes as all of us walk our own paths alone. Nobody in their right mind would leap away from the road just to take an arrow that was not even directed at them. If you don't learn how to heal, or live with the scar and its cause embedded in your flesh, you die. Weakness is not tolerated by nature. 

I'm not a soothing balm that would ease your pain. There's no nepenthe moistening my lips. The pain is your own and I am not to take it from you. Memories are the battlefields that turned into a garden; one breaks something - a thought, a connection, a heart, a mind -, and its pieces turns into little seeds, watered by blood, whoever's blood, planted into the ground. Present is what one has harvested from them. Future's in the ground. One either learns to cast the seeds one is delighted to pick the fruits of, or suffer the plague one has grown. Why would you need me for such a private journey? Besides, I'm way too busy organising seeds myself, thank you.   

I am no idol to look up to, or follow, nor am I a companion to share a path with. I am but a will-o-wisp, transparent, shining a pale light, leading you to a place of dark demise, if you chose to catch me. I dance and fly and sing and cry and run and climb my way through the endless woods of life, and I fear the weight that would need care and devotion during my witch's sabbath of an advance. 

I am not a bird singing praises to you if you cage me, I am the silence of the book. I have all my songs within, bound in heavy cover, songs that were never sung, that are not to be sung. Records of inexpressible sensations, they are locked and are growing without making a sound. Should you crave morale-raising speeches, soliloquies of the heart, bouquets of lies to reinforce your self, you will have to start looking - for I've forgotten how to create those and care little to remember them.

How could I possibly believe that I'm one to be with you? The strings flapping around me as I go, I don't know how to tie them to you. How could I swear I'll be with you?