1.25.12 (one man pity party)

I can't decide
if it's funny
or sad,
that the only way
I talk to
anyone
is if I call THEM.
There is only one
who calls me,
and it's usually
for a drink.
He knows I will go,
but not WHY.
I wonder how long
must I wait,
until I get
at the very least
a hello.

1.25.12 (trust issues)

must I always

wish

to be proven

wrong?

why does

that saying,

"easier said

than done,"

always seem 

to strike

true?

so many warm days

have i spent

inside.

feeding on 

the loneliness.

i wish for

a lantern,

a guide to

lead me back.

but they have not come,

and i do not think

i would leave if they did.

12.24.12 (math)

math
makes me
angry,
because
it's purpose
is to
simplify
the wonder
of chaos.

1.24.12 (reflections on a past life, or, piece of a larger story yet to be written)

It was at this time that I began to believe that when a person began to love someone, they gave that person a part of themselves. Each time I had taken a woman to bed, I had loved them a little, some more than others of course. I began to believe that I had been losing myself, piece by piece. This explained my sudden case of complete and total apathy. I had given too much this time.This had happened once or twice before, but never this messy, and I had never felt this vulnerable. I had left myself open to my inevitable doom. If I didn't die of natural causes soon, surely I would bring about my own demise. It had been nearly a week, since that lustful night of sin, and I still hadn't recovered. How much longer would it persist? The mood itself was torture enough, but the longing to see her, speak to her, hear her, touch her, was crippling. The night had been lived as if in another land, one far from here, and had ended with the afternoon sun. Such fleeting moments seem to produce the deepest wounds...

1.23.12 (forever)

Value. I don't know if I quite understand that word. We put value in things we consider to be of worth, but what is worth? What makes something valuable? There are people who make a living deeming whether things are worthy or not. And then there's value. Money, health, land, life. All very different things, but they have all been given a value. One pays to live. That seems so strange to me. I've come to the conclusion that we live borrowed lives. Not in a spiritual sense, more in an all-encompassing worldly sense I suppose. We borrow time, we borrow money, we borrow health, we borrow cars, we borrow land, we borrow jobs, we borrow life. We are given these things for a limited time, then we must give them back. I guess it's like that saying, "nothing lasts forever," but I don't really believe in forever.

1.21.12 (silence)

The heaviest of lonesome silence. The longing. Waiting for the weight in one's chest to dissolve; being crushed by knots in one's chest and that heavy silence. What does one do while waiting for the many knots that form beneath one's ribs to untie? It's when when one loses the will to move, burdened beneath the weight of those knots, and that horrible silence.

I want to get out of bed, but I can't get myself to.

1.21.12 (for you i am now dying)

I've always considered myself a professional at something. I've mastered the art of being a couch potato. Lately I've come to think that I've earned myself a promotion: I am a pretender. I've gotten so fucking good at it, you wouldn't even know. Pretending I do or do not care. I should get a fucking award for my efforts in maintaining the many illusions that hold together the fabric that is my sanity, and that get me through the night and day. It's funny, a friend told me that in his relations with women he usually hurts them, but in mine I just go on hurting myself. It's alright though, I'll just pretend that he isn't right.

1.19.12 (lines)

Lines. They're everywhere. They don't dictate our lives, but they define how we live them. Some are straight, and some become bent or crooked. Lots of things travel in lines, straight or crooked: cars, trains, planes, people, bugs, animals, clouds, electricity, ghosts, dust... Oftentimes it's hard to stay on a straight path. In most cases these lines need guidance to stay straight. To me it's strange, and magical, how all things are interconnected in this way. Most of all though, I find it kind of sad that the beauty that one can find in the wonder that is spontaneity and chaos fall victim to the slavery of routine. As for me, I find comfort in walking my crooked path, that's not to say that this road does not have straight areas, but for me, those times are my lowest.

1.18.12 (on the bus)

your eyes
your freckles
enchant me.
exchanging glances,
but quick to look away.
i am a coward.
but i observe
beauty.
natural
beauty.

1.18.12 (more anxiety)

people
they make me
anxious.
cars
they make me
anxious.
sitting on the bus,
looking around,
chewing my nails
until they
bleed.
when theres
nothing
left to chew
i chew
my lips.
at this pace
i'll eat myself
whole,
if the world
doesn't eat me
first.