in dreams i am yours, and i awake with your presence still enveloping my every thought. first breath. the vapors of you crystalize my lungs until you finally arrive and touch my chest.
in that instant, i will shatter like glass.
i need to be degaussed.
like a machine. reset.
multidimensional mentality. conversations with a pack of wolves in a different life. those same wolves being crushed by the mastodons. i know what direction we’re facing. drop down behind the armoire. bar fight. i told you not to talk about comic sans. damn elitists. let me just find these junkies some heroine and we’ll be fine. portals to somewhere new, i’m done with this generation. futuristic hell in chrome. what i wouldn’t do for some antique woodwork.
After a while, you start to notice the way you make your mark on things. Through natural wear, I’ve noticed my fingers making impressions. Sometimes I lay awake at night and just run my hands over each other and realize that your fingers have made that same impression. You find a way to still be here. I always wonder if your hands ever run across mine when I’m not there, and if it makes you miss me.
after all the pain i’ve caused my relationship interests over the years, i have realized that i probably don’t deserve to be happy. i have done wrong so many times, and i never seem to learn from it. i mean, of course, i do learn and make a conscious effort to be a better person, but somehow i always manage to fuck up.
i’m sick of doing that. and i’m so scared about what’s going to happen. most people think i give off a front of not giving a fuck about anything and hating everyone, but that’s really not true.
i don’t particularly like people as a whole, but the people i genuinely care for, i want nothing more than to make them happy, but i feel like i’m always falling short. this post was pointless, but i just wanted to get that off my chest. i guess, just know that i do love you, even if you think i don’t.
You could suppose that detachment is sometimes the best option in situations similar to this. It’s something that we all do because its cold and calculating. Like numbers on a board. You see it, tangible. In this instance, I suppose I’m referring to myself, just talking to myself. It’s easier this way.
“You never really know what you have until its gone,” they say, but its all bullshit. You realize more, I suppose, but you always know what you have. Perhaps we take things for granted, fuck, I need to remember this is a first-person work. I took things for granted. But I’m fairly content with where I’m at right now. I suppose I’ve gotten to a point in life where I can look in the mirror and finally understand who I’m talking to.
There’s an art to being dismal. My time on this planet is insignificant. I’ve come to terms with that. This depresses me slightly, but only slightly. What’s made me melancholic is knowing that all art is shit. What you’re reading is shit. Look at me, calling my ramblings a work of art, how vain. I suppose what I’m trying to say is, don’t put faith in anything but the knowledge that one day, you will die. The one thing in this life that, if you can even call it that, is insurmountable.
I should probably only write of things I know of personally, instead of hearsay. This passage is completed, I won’t allow anymore.
20111223508
