"Spill this dark ink"

It's always hard to say what makes us feel the way we do. What puts us in these "fuck yourself" moods.

But I'm just impatient lately. And any number of other things that either do or don't stem from my frustration with this two-dimensional conversation. Practice for whatever it is I'm waiting for. I don't even know what it is I miss about the way things were. It's possible that they never actually were, in reality. I have a bad habit of romanticizing things.

And I can't decide if it's more or less mature to tell myself that things'll change. Because they never really seem to for any significant length of time.

And I also can't decide if it's more or less mature for me to try so hard to believe in Shane Koyczan lyrics. Or, I don't know, John Cusack movies.

"Gotta cash in my reality checks."

And maybe stop living between one-liners.

I do apologize for the ambiguity. But I guess when I'm this burnt out trying to articulate lonliness without using the word comes out a little less clear that I'd have liked. And maybe vagueness is just our way of not saying what we mean. And I'm just to exhausted with... with everything to hide it effectively.

And I hate using words like "empty" or "hollow" when I'm trying to describe how I feel. It's more like being a big bowl of chicken caesar salad without the dressing. You don't really need it. But everything just isn't right without it. Yeah. Exactly like that.

And I really do believe that independance is an impossibility. That we are only the sum of our relationships and interactions. And that whatever it is we're trying to achieve, happiness or whatever else, is attainable only through that moment of silent belonging. I think that's love.

I need someone willing to lend me her maddness.

Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike