Choking in that tight-chested wince of guttural rememberings. Playing with flirty smiles now wilting stale and gone. What harsh tones these once precious things now bear. The poison is love and the seed is memory.
I’m not too deep in my own filth that I can’t see. I see the perpetual flaw; the bruised standard I’ve let degrade in compromise. Why? Because the aloneness is insufferable? Because love is really fun? Is there a good reason? I just can’t go making the same mistakes over and over again. I have scorned love a final time and I have imposing doubt as to its revival.
You can clearly see, I give these introspective processes some thought. It’s not all slap-dash. I also really have no place else to express my inmost thoughts. My secret workings are only as laid bare as one practical blog reader can see. I spend time on understanding so that I can better sympathize. So that I can better comprehend the struggle and feel it too. I get a lot of this on the phone. People want to tell me that they’re frustrated, but they take it out in passive-aggressive ways. They say things that give away their intentions. I’d very much like to turn that mirror on myself, and pursue the goal of validity. What’s the point of the experiment if you’re going to sully the results by lying? I could sit here in my little blog world and tell you all whatever sounded good. I could show you a truly unbelievable persona that would resemble the shadow of meaning, which would garner things only as meaningless as itself.
My life. A ponderous story, mostly frustrating, occasionally euphoric, but altogether mine. I guess when it gets to be the end, such as it is, don’t hesitate to embrace it. Each change is a new chance to learn. Anecdotal advice depleted.