There's no point this.

I've been much too sad for much too long and since I've grown much too tired of having my all too loud cries for help all but ignored I've resolved to not be sad for very much longer. But before I go and accuse and curse the world for making me everything I'm not, I'll, of course, have to look inside and take stock of my own wither and rot. A lack of love left me languid. Where weakness was, I replaced it with wickedness. I wish I had just stayed weak. In terms of love, I made a a feast of scraps; akin to carrion, really. I should have loved myself more.

People have cared about me, a great deal even. So much so, I know how I hurt them when I pushed them away, and I know what it's like to be loved. That's not what I'm lamenting the lack of now.

It's the pining, the twisting, the aching, the knots. Butterflies in blue skies. I mean love in a romantic sense. I would challenge and reach,push and pull. Dive right in. And I have poetry in me, so that gets in the way Trying to say something beautifully isn't pretense or flattery, it's, to me, sincerity. If you have to explain your inner poetry, though, are you a good poet? But all of the push and pull, plus and minus, was met with a demonstrable resolve to stand still. I had to get comfortable in my place. I never was.

How do you get comfortable with being comfortable?!

It's definitely my fault! I am my own fault. I love people who are in love, hoping to get in on it or see if there's a secret to it. When people speak passionately, I fixate. I obsess. I want to understand their fire to make sense of mine. I'm just burning alive now, though...

But, still, there were only scraps. And I would gorge myself on what little I could get. That's no way to live. Taking from people the little they would give, consolations, concession in place of what they couldn't offer is no way to live. It was pity and I am pathetic. At least in that sense. I don't think it's a defining characteristic, though.

I've never had all of anyone and demanded too much of what I could have until I couldn't have it anymore. Usually animal needs. Sex. Sexuality. Something supple and soft to complement my harsh hardness.

I'm not afraid to die. I really look forward to it. I imagine it's a lot like what it was like before I was born. I won't feel anything, but that means I won't feel bad. I've been thinking about dying lately. Considering suicide more and more, L'appel du vide, and I don't know if I want to take my life or if I just don't want to live like this anymore. It's confusing because I don't know how to go about living any other way. Everything takes time and if I want to affect real change in my life, it will take time. But the idea of feeling the way I do after any amount of time terrifies me. I'm not afraid to die, I'm afraid of living to a ripe old age and realizing I could've checked out at 25 and saved myself so much grief and pain! So much of this indescribable, in decipherable, indefensible sorrow.

I'm living life the same way someone walks into a party ready to leave. Entering a building and scanning for exits so they don't have to stay longer than necessary and no longer than they want to. Self-determination manifesting almost exclusively as an inclination toward self-termination.