One Dozen. No More, No Less

I guess somethings weren't meant to be. The evidence is so overwhelming, I fear I am naïve for believing otherwise. My only flaw was not lying, for a fake is more redeemable than a failure. I was not anticipating this acrimonious taste of defeat. Chewing on wormwood would only make this feeling mellifluous. I have serious doubts of myself. I don't think I am just being critical or caustic. I admit to the world at large that I am flawed in more ways than one. If this is the epiphany I reach tonight next to my alky, so be it. Bring delirium to me fast so that I may sleep the night away peacefully. These dreams seem so vivid, and yet, even they don't take me away from the lingering pain that festers in daily routine.

Death In the Afternoon

All I can taste is that familiar pungent feeling. It's like if I had never tried it I would never walk through life knowing or regretting it. I'm not sure I regret it yet, but I do wish I had weighed the consequences. I am tainted. Or at least I feel tainted. I am not alone in this spoiling of spirit, and yet that does not comfort me in the least bit. Everywhere I go I can help think of it and its distinct characteristics. Although it is constantly on my mind, I don't yearn for it as others do. This possession prized by some, hoarded by others, is scaring me in ways I never thought imaginable when I was naïve. It has distorted my vision of the world so that I can not fathom minute fragrances. It is hard to picture a world without such corruption, but I wouldn't know. I never try.

People, Places, Percolating

Sometimes I feel like I can be someone else. I feel like I can see what they see. Feel how they feel, if only for a moment. It's as if I can imagine what conflicts, internal and external, are existing at this very moment for someone else. This people watching has become people being. Simply being someone else as far as my vivid imagination can conjure. For some it just brushes the surface to obvious characteristics, but for others, it involves going deeper into the unknown. I travel to past memories that although made up, seem oh so real to me. I develop a plot equipped with a setting, characters, and morals, just like that of a bestseller straight from my thought to the shelves of the nearest book store. These tales are anything but gruesome. Everyone has problems, big or benign, so they too possess such marred qualities. Everyone is trying to catch a break and leave a namesake. All matters are taken into account in my dark and sinister tales. I leave nothing to the imagination, but some thoughts are so vague that ten become impossible to count how many possible outcomes there are. I will let you into on a little secret; they are all bad. I do not foresee a positive outcome for the lost and downtrodden. As far as a pessimist goes, I am generous as I annotate their ever move and counter with reaction. If I am the only one who does this, call me crazy. Call me what ever brings a smirk to you face and a skip to your step because when you are not brooding, I will.

These Sunny Nights

I guess happiness is just unreachable. That self-awareness that we seek is just as fake as my friendships. No doubt about it, people are nice when they need something and quickly ditch the act as soon as they get it. They for get where they came from. I'm not sure if this is because these very same people are competing with me for attention, or superiority. You know, I really don't really have any ambitions of being superior. Isn't it the struggle that is more fun than the accomplishment. And even when you get there, it's nerve-racking to keep it because you always know that there is someone else who is striving for the same thing. I just want to be the quiet one in the back plotting their demise. I just want to taste advantage. All of this normality is sickening. I know you might say I could be worse off, but I'm sure as the morning will come that I could be in better standing. I don't really care where I stand with my friends, or rather the people who care about me. I just sometimes wish I was friends with a less intellectual crowd. I feel so inferior. I know I am. It sickens me to admit it, but I'm not as intelligent as them. If only they could come out of the woodwork and tell me it doesn't matter to them, that they like me the way I am and that they wouldn't trade me for the world. It's because I feel that way about them. They deserve to know that. Although I try to inform them on every occasion, I fear that it doesn't get through for some reason or another. They should know that I envy their ease of thought and their seemingly mundane lives. If I can't manage to find a certain someone to share this with, I think I should share this with one who I know cares. It's not like I could walk down the hall and tell my family. That implied love is deceiving. I know they care, but you wouldn't tell you mother that you are so deep in the hole that it make you nauseous every day you wake up knowing that you must endure the inevitable condemnation. I just makes me sad. Sad as the sea.