i always loved being alone. in the darkness, just thinking about things that's unimportant. thinking about sad things that happen in my life before. i like black. in coffee, color, pattern, ghost, stories, most thing people would say, it's dark.
but then my friend - one of my friend - tell me a story about her mothers death. chronologically.
and still i cried. i cried hard enough to think that this is not the kind of black thing i love. you can not love someone's death except fictionally. no matter who that someone is.
i haven't even met her mother. i don't know her at all.
and few months before this, i came to my friends grandfathers funeral. and i cried there. without stories. i just cried. hardly.
i don't know why i cried. i feel sad of course. but why should i? those people i never met, i never knew, i never owe anything. why should i?
logically, those tears i cried is positively useless. annoying maybe. and yes, i feel that it's no use.
i do not know.
maybe i am not that fetish of black at all.
