Sometimes the good parts of the day are the hardest. I woke up, I felt rested, and I skated out to meet you. You were radiant, warm, and soft. And I didn't feel sad about it, not one bit. Then I left you to your day, and it slowly dragged down again. I don't want to be that person to you. I know I've leaned on you a few times, but I don't want to do that. I'd rather be swallowed up inside myself - it's not like you could help me anyways. I hope that you and I work out some day, and that it is like summer days: all sparkle and warmth and impermanence.

Warm milk time, kitten needs to sleep.

Written On: Home Computer

Run until your ankles bleed. Run until every ounce of fat slides off your already shrivelled body. Run until you burn the muscles that propel you forward. Run perhaps so that you might sleep. But you don’t, you run there too. You awake exhausted because you keep running in your sleep.

I can’t outrun you. But I will try.

Alternate Title: If I’m Going To Be Depressed, I Might As Well Get Really Good At Something

Run until it burns. Run until the tops of your feet hurt. Run and challenge and strive until your legs are a warzone of scrapes and bruises and your muscles sit proud and swollen. Run until your entire body aches.

Push the rest of yourself, push towards something, something simple. A ball. A moment. Push until you become the razor sharp moment. Push so that you live up to your name. Push past social graces, past conversations, past the constant feeling of being alone. Bleed, strive, persevere. Spitting up blood is the goal, not a side effect.

I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to anyone. I'm not sure I want to do anything that involves me. Let it be simple, let it be work, let it be sport, let it be art. I want things I can lose myself in. Large, perfect, black holes - that I can fall into until time ends.

Collapsing as I go.

Currently Listening: Stars - I Died So I Could Haunt You (Listen)

You, I cannot pin down. I think, perhaps, because you haven't pinned me down. You shift from scrawny to matronly, from seducer to girl next door. I can't keep track of your persona, your masks shift too completely and without pomp or circumstance. I think, perhaps, if I ended up with you, you might actually matter to me. Which makes me want to vomit blood. I cannot take it, the loss, the rejection, it is too much. Even once every four years is too much. If it happens, it happens, but I think I will tread water until you move on, no matter if you haunt my thoughts or not.

Written On: Home Computer

Is that it? Is this relentless loneliness now sharing space with a returning sense of self?

I struggled, many long years, and every day and every month and every year I lost a little bit more. Cared a little bit less. About everything. The daily grind wore away at me, until I swayed in the breeze. It wasn't just loneliness, but worthlessness. So very tired, I was always so very tired.

I still struggle to do even the most basic of things. Food. Laundry. Dishes. Sleep. Cleaning. I find my current level of functionality despicable, and yet I see how much better it is than last year.

Now, a series of social tangles threaten to coil around me, join my loneliness and my dysfunction in their case to drag me down.

And I care. I react. I hate.

It mostly still sits insular inside me, flaring up but rarely for the systematic woes of our time and mostly for the wrongs done me, but it is there, nonetheless. It burns again.

It burns cold and true. Righteously.

Written On: Home Computer

I was happy with you. Partly because your eyes sparkled and you said you wanted me to be happy. You were strange and beautiful and precious and mine. I was too much, in every way, and when I came to you in tatters, eye swollen and limping, you finally pulled away. My violence on your self-image along with my persona were finally rejected. I was warned: I would be struck down for daring to say I was happy with everything in my life. The sun trucks no hubris; the wax in my wings melted away and I fell. But it is not about you.

Y'know, I was never happy with you. Not once. Our entire relationship was a funeral, and the break-up was just the end. Everything after was mourning for something that was never alive. That is sad, but true. Even so, it is not about you.

I was happy with you too, regardless of how much you hurt me. The third in a series of happinesses, the third in a series of ones that I would have married. But, for an accounting different than I am not used to, you did not want me. You knew what would happen, you chose anyhow. It is hard not to take it personally. I will, perhaps, come back to you too, in years, like I do the other two. Perhaps then, we shall rekindle, and I might warm myself around that little fire. But then there may be too little left. Of me this time, and not of the other. Regardless, and irrespective of how recent, this isn't about you either.

I have, perhaps, been happy for approximately a month of all of years alive. You'd think I would be better at misery, with all this practice. Even with the magnitude of that statement, it isn't even about that either.

It is about me.

I wish I didn't need. There is so much excess in our society, I should be able to exist solitarily and without feeling so lonely (like I always have). I want to spit in the face of dependence, so much that I would happily die than have needed help. I am a knife.

But as I would lay there, bleeding out, I wouldn't be able to only think that I leave now because I cannot help myself up. That I could not carry myself into the massive safety net that exists everywhere in this bloated, beautiful system. I would also think that I wished one of you was there, holding my hand, and that you had felt the same about me. And perhaps the most pathetic thing is that I would want you to be there even if you didn't feel the same, because I feel like that about you.

That is what it is about.

Written On: Home Computer

Recursive.

Currently Listening: M83 - Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts (album)