____________ (first, last)

It's been a while. I guess I neglected others for the sake of writing, but this time I did the opposite. I am sadly content. I had it all a few days ago, but it was stripped from me unceremoniously. Every time something good happens, it vanishes before I have the time to enjoy it. I need someone. I NEED someone. I need you. Too bad you're life is already too complicated without me. It's a shame you couldn't express yourself to me adequately. Oh well, you only ignored me for a few days. It's not good enough, but you are. That's why I keep crawling back. Why I continue to forgive you in my mind. I know I'm not much, but at least I'm here and trying.

Andy

It's surprising how different something can be when you slow it down. It changes the feeling. It opens your eyes. It digs deeper. Recently I have opted out of all of this fast pace rubbish and lieu of some slow and meaningful beauty. For me, this works. Well, for now at least. Thank you Andy.

Rain

Go ahead. Stab me in the back. Tease me. I will honestly fall for anything. So please, tell me lies and build me up because you obviously don't think I'm worth much at all. As for me, I'll still remain the gullible and naive person you once knew when my thoughts weren't entirely intact. Besides, as far as you know, I'll be gone in a year and you wont ever see me again.

I fear I am becoming something to great to reason with.

A Very Special Night For No Apparent Reason

I know it's been a while, but I'm starting a new. I am "revisiting" old pleasures and revamping my delicate residual feelings. It seems everyday brings a new hope that someday, I will forever be different. Maybe I'm just saying this because it's a new year. Fuck it. I said it because it's true.

More and more I find the irony of situations. How this world seems to fall in place oh so perfectly wither it be for the better or the worse. With the cold I feel invigorated. I am seeing as an onlooker and not a participant. I'm not sure if I like this or not, but it is new and I'm content with change. It seems that just yesterday I was in dire need of the people around me, and yet, today I am content with this soloist lifestyle. All I need are those who want so dearly to be with me to follow. I would rather not stoop low enough to be a follower, granted we need a few of them. I jsut would rather not be counted amongst their numbers. Be a black sheep, and don't stop there.

A good friend once told me that white wine was the only good wine. I think I would rather have limited knowedge of both red and white than a connoisseur in just one (I admitted to only caring for red, by the way.) Alright, do us part. Just me and my classics, only thing to do now is to read.

Timeless

To me, it is simply astonishing what events can unfold in the course of a night. Unrepeatable, I embarked on escapades that were not thought feasible just twenty minutes earlier. I'm glad I decided to put myself on the back burner and take others advice. I do feel like I'm some what using you, dear friend of mine, to escape the everyday troubles that I experience. I feel guilt. Let me make it up to you (even though you say I need not do so) and let me take you on an adventure that you may not see the likes of ever again. I let my tongue go loose and lose my control, but isn't that what you asked me to do? So why do I feel so guilty? Why do I care where you end up if it so you that gets hurt, not me? I can't help but think that deep down, hidden like that of an ice burg who hides his body bellow the ocean' surface, that I might actually care. It scares me. Despite this, I think I am only trying to be unbiased, taking the view of an onlooker. I don't feel that way! That is why this is so confusing. Hear me through, I still remain steadfast to my original goals, as much of a curse as that is, and I denounce any internal feelings I may have.

Most recently, I see myself, my life, the events of my existence, as being a book. Though the chapters are not numbered, I see the plot unraveling to reveal a story webbed together with irony and pattern. How cliche would it be for me, ME, to write a book about myself. I just can't see that ever happening. It's not that I don't think it would interesting, I just feel that having the urge to write an autobiography at such an age is preposterous. I don't think I am going anywhere soon, as in I doubt I will die in the near future. I'm simply terrified I am losing my thoughts and memories to the clock. What a way that would be to suffer.

A Moment We Store Away

I am weak. These days seem so long and then they pass by without a remembrance. I don't remember what happened a week ago today, or what I ate for lunch on Monday, but that doesn't mean those things don't matter. They matter to me. Some how I feel my grip slowly slip away. I wish it wasn't there to begin with. It is better to not know so that this frustration would be avoided.

I am not losing my mind. I am not losing my mind. I am not losing my mind. I have only found it.

It's strange to think a week ago I was ready to pack up and leave. As easy as that sounds, and as if I could really do that. But, I thought I could and that's all that mattered. I scrutinize others and discover myself a hypocrite. I offer advice, but I do not accept it. I just want so badly to be better off on my own. I doubt I will ever be on my own, fore, "No matter how far you travel... to whatever reaches of this limitless universe...you will never be...ALONE!" -The Watcher, Fantastic Four #13, May 1963