i think some days, when i am nothing but only tired, and even the lively edge of bitterness is gone, i'm just not there. like, hello, eleven-year cycle of fatigue & sleeplessness, i did not miss you. what is there?

i could spill away; i think about it. i think about how love saves the day, but only hand in hand with the truth, because love alone is just feeble, aimless emotion, and truth alone is too much of a cool-hearted, solitary companion. these things temper each other.

well, i don't know where love is, but i've got a lot of honesty, which is the thin safety blanket that i'm sitting on. what does a girl have to do, to disappear?

she said that she found that sad things troubled me more than i think they will, and she's right. at least i've got my guitar. i spend time holding onto its hollow body.

it was nice for a while. i thought things were going to be different.

i laughed.

these people caught in their scripts. spirituality, signs, mistakes, love & home. free spirited. up and down tones of their voices, & they're running their lines, signing their papers, finding their next space for their things & their bodies. are you annoyed?, he asks. leading questions, i think, to misdirect into an argument over negative emotions, instead of finding growth. the woman loves him; she thinks he is a more honest, fairer, kinder, more beautiful man than he actually is. we both see his potential, but for her, it is enough, and for me, well, darling, we all have potential. she likes the organza of romance, and he likes to weave, because all that is keeping them going in the largely unfulfilling rote of their lives, is this grasp of flimsy human interaction, which truth be told, bores them existentially.

he is casually cruel, or desperately stupid; likely both, and disrespectful of himself & others in an inherent way. he is entitled and lazy and bad to his art. he is fearful, and insecure. he hurts others, knowingly, and blames it on moods and foolishness and temperament. he is the everyman in short stories, but the one that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, because he doesn't move his soul or behavior to transcendence, but cops-out, continuously, repeatedly, from person to person, situation to situation, until he dies a largely ordinary death. he fails to live his life truly & compellingly, but slips into occasional acts of style & ability. most things are done with some fear, which he could overcome with acts of bravery, but he has yet to do it. maybe he'll accomplish it at 78, when he is old, and a grandfather, in an act of true moral courage before a child, and be a changed man. i doubt it.

not because humanity is not beautiful, but because he is a man who chooses cowardice & ease when he could be the man who chose to live vulnerably & beautifully. i would never love the former, and to the latter, i'd helplessly, willingly lose my heart to.

wher're you gonna run to? you want a hideaway or rescue, but all you're going to find, is talk. and you're going to want real bad that you didn't run, but that you stayed, & fought, flight or fight, even though you really thought it was going to be a losing battle anyway, for the chance to reap the emotional reward of finding something you always wanted to be real and yours. it's a person on the other side, someone battling the same losing battle with these ghosts & choices you've made, to go  hand-in-hand with you, to make different choices than the ones you would've made alone. it's a pooling of dreams & strengths, where hopefully the strength in one arena, could cancel out the permanent cracks in other's flaws.

it's like saying, i know you're a coward and not that into me, but i'm going to stay anyway. and you see how you feel about me, whether you need me or not. you read me wrong, so read again. everyone needs me, why wouldn't you? we all need each other. who cares who stands to gain or benefit? do you want this? yes? no? well, i'm here and i've got faith in you. so don't let me down. because i care. that's all love is, at the end of the day. it's care. if you care, it's love. and if you don't, then it's not.

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we all have a downtown hell. spend a few years bonding over tragic stories on the bar counter. i wish i had a drinking buddy; someone different & new, with no investment in my life to trade stories with. 

sometimes the music doesn't come

well, internet people, i could jump up and down on my bed for catharsis, but you know, i just did that thing where i put myself in the shower, and showered it all off, plus some tears, because, hey, you could soak your psychological pillow, or you could just get it all out until you're done and move on, like a child. what child holds on to hurt? they just cry it out for as long as they need, and then they're okay.

it's not that bad. i could get all bitter and be like, hey, never opening up again, but y'know, actually, i'm pretty happy and comfortable with myself, 'cuz you know, what the hey. what the hey.