Maybe you don't love me. You've never said it. Maybe a lot of things. Maybe I've had it. Maybe I'm too afraid to be fed up. Maybe I'm too frightened to realize I'll always be fed up. And it'll change tomorrow, when we share the same sentence, and you call me beautiful and I deny it. It'll make me see that my mental behavior is resting on fictional, self-created hype. It's silliness, that is, until it happens again... and it will. ----------------------------- Intermittent intervals of being content, foiled by the belief that everything will disappear. Pieces are missing. No one has seen them in years. Too much has happened to retrieve my place in serenity. There's no one to turn to and nowhere to go at 3am as the rest of the country sleeps, I sit, a prisoner of wide eyes, forced to span time, marching around with my displaced memories. I'm looking for skin to call my home. Everything seems to be so wrong... while everyone sleeps. Like being violently shaken, I'm forced into believing somethings missing.
A night of delusion
6:22 p.m.//12.30.04
And I'll be last, again, to myself. As sure as I'm not needed, it intensifies the spark of energy inside me to leave it all behind. To test the waters. To play the role of the martyr dying for sympathy. So insecure, to pine indefinitely for the indefinable. Unusual behavior from a usual source.
What a downer to come to terms with never being satisfied.
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