Lessons

I make lying a lesson in regret.



* has changed his status from "Single" to "In a Relationship."

This shouldn't matter. But I still feel bitterness burdgeoning in my chest.

Damnit.

I'm just

I'm just

So ready to let all this be over.

Bitter Intermission

I'm not quite sure what I'm waiting for, what I'm forestalling.

Maybe it's reality. Maybe it's falling in to the old bitter facade. What the hell, it could be just about anything.

I miss having someone understand me. No one else seems bright enough in his wake. No one's the right amount of sympathetic, empathetic, or apathetic. Yes, apathetic. I brood and wallow and think maybe I should confide, but only realize there's no use. That's why I didn't write in your journal ages ago. You scorned it. Disdained my feelings. And I hate you for it. As deep now is my resent as the day it happened. When you seemed so hurtful, and it was not, as you would say, because truth hurts. It was because you couldn't know what it was I was thinking or feeling or doing. You condemned my actions as those of a fool, and have since carried on to batter all my inner sanctums.

Maybe you were doing it before, but I hadn't noticed. I can't be sure. All I know is that every time I feel like maybe I could spend some face time with you, you make some small flippant comment, and I'm left to put it off again and again.

But where are my excuses for Jess? Julie? Arlenne? Chloe? Kristin?

I have no amazing self justification for that. I just don't want to see them. Resentful and repulsed I remain, as I wrote not too long ago. Get back from me. Stay away. For the love of dearness, dislike me, or in the least forget me. I'm a coward and I haven't the will to face you and tell you I'd like nothing better right now than to be free of all of you. Free from the shackles of your wants and needs and hopes and dreams and camaraderie. I've finished with that. I'm all full up of it and fresh out of patience or feeling.

No man's an island. So I talk at will with the ones who will never know me and never care for me. Jokes and blunder and banter. It is enough. If I can't have someone to believe in, then I don't want anyone to believe in me.

I hate finding out my lie to be truth. We knew, didn't we, each of us that we weren't made for other people? My Betrayed Betrayor, never trusting others for fear of his own pain, and always paining others for that very reason, pushing out their confidence, pushing out them. And I, a hapless harlequin with a bright inviting mask and no face to speak of. I thought we could be together in our own little place. We would need no one else. We could be free of those that make us uncomfortable and irritated. But someone without a face, without a heart, can't hope to warm a person of stone resolve.

Ah, but it we would've been wonderful for however long we lasted. I know we would.

But it's a mute point now. Everything I have given, I had thought equal to that which I had taken. If there is a force of equilibrium in the world, then it has deemed me still deep in debt. It didn't even deign to give me a good-bye.

And I am oh so very tired of being failed and of failing. Of slipping off the comic mask only to watch them back away in discomfort. For this I should glue the mask to my face permanently. But I'm so very tired of covering up.

So everyone else go away. Let me have a brief time without a mask in which I can rest. Consider this an intermission before the next part of the show, where I am sure I will amaze you with astounding feats and death defying new tricks. But be gone. Be gone now.

I want only someone who knows me by my side. And none of you seem to fit that category.

Glory

I know I should be regretting it, buuuuuuuuuuuut

I feel oddly peaceful.

And this may not make sense,

or last,

or anything really,

but I feel really okay now. Like I've just exhaled when my lungs were about to burst and took in a single, sweet normal breath.


So I lost to the mad obsession. Called him. And someone answered! It was a deep voice. Either not him, or he was sleepy, or he was pissed, or he was sad. There was silence on my end as I began to shake, and then I hung up.

Yeah, I hated me too right about then.

So I call back two minutes later and apologize saying it was an accident blahblahblah.

And then I call back eight minutes after that and admitted it wasn't, that I missed my best friend, and that if he hates me, it's cool, and that he must think I'm like drunk something.

And then my mind just went quiet.

And it was glorious.

Lost

It's a bit of a question what I'm more tired of, other people or myself.

They want to see me, hang out with me, they miss me and <3 me. But I just shy away from them. I just get revolted by them. I despise them, are irritated by them. I'm falling back to the bad habit. The old facade.

I don't want you any more.

I want my misery and my imbalance, not the choirs of needful voices or woeful eyes. None of you, none of you can I break my silence for. None of you, none of you can I get my solace from. None of you, none of you can I bear to stand. Leave me be. The sulking wonder.

But you, you I'll play with. A simple little game. Distract me, distract me. I'm not playing with you, really, just playing you. Never fear, the attention won't last too long.

You're hardly interesting game to play along.

It's useless.

I don't want you.

Any of you.

I just want to sit in the darkness, dreading to dream.

At once desperate to feel for him and to forget him.

Maybe I am crazy.

Why can't I just have it stop?

It's had plenty of time to fade.





I've lost my best friend.

Rogue

I dream of him.

Every night.

It's always the same base, though the atmosphere changes.

It's a carnival, it's school, it's a party, it's the neighborhood, it's the night skies.

I'm always looking for him.

Searching for him.

A moment away from seeing him.

And then I wake up.

Heart broken.

Restless.

Defeated.

And I don't know what to do about it.

I fear dreaming. I detest it.

I'm afraid to sleep to dream.

How do you silence your dreams?

How do you silence your heart?

I miss him quite terribly.

But that was my word.

And I am no type of honorable person.

Ideas

The Senseless Chronicles: Losing Everything, One Page at a Time

Sightless
Smellless
Tasteless
Soundless
Feelingless

I like the concept, but haven't the faintest what to make them about yet...

Tasteless

I don't very well understand why I'm fighting the urge so bitterly to die.

Mostly, I don't understand why I should want to die in the first place.

But still, every moment that passes changes nothing.

I suppose it's my fault for sitting and waiting for a change.

I shouldn't be wallowing.

I should be fighting, making plans, distracting myself.

But all I want to do is brood and be pained and mourn and resent.

I nurse the festering wound in me better than the children of joy.

Just because
because because because

It's easier to cause this crippling pain, than it is to cause physical pain.

Who needs the edge of the razor when you can cut so much deeper and more permanently into yourself with your own self loathing?

I feel stifled sometimes. Pressures from all sides crush in on me. Whatever will I do?

BREATHE, You Are Alive!

A dare. An obligation. Thank you, Zen book borrowed from Tegan, for that quote.

I use it so often.


I found the words of a friend today, referring to Karma as 'Whooey' and just another 'scapegoat.'

For such a tolerant person, this intolerance of the faith and beliefs of others is killing me, but maybe I'm just looking for a fight, a reason for discontented behavior.

Mostly, I just wanted to answer, "Like the devil? Like original fucking sin? Like many different aspects in many different religions?"

I don't know. It gets to me. It's just...the fucking nerve. Even if I'm just looking for reasons, that's troublesome enough in its existence.


I'm so lonely.

I don't want to be alone.

But that doesn't appear to matter very much.

We do end up insane or dead, don't we?

It will be quite interesting finding out which road'll become mine.

I must be sure to write dozens of interesting things in the meantime, so that they can get famous posthumuously.

"Home"

And to think I actually believed I had known loneliness that night.

Unpleasant solitude and disappointment and confusion, but not loneliness.

Because watching television every night in the dark alone

I think that might be far worse.

Because I could have joined them, they invited me.

But here, here I am desolation.

Isolation.

Deep, resentful contemplation.

And nothing more.