like some washed up actress in a tinseltown
we are all underdeveloped. crutched. unable to stand by ourselves. on two solid feet and nothing to rest on. the task is impossible, that we've been given. to be an individual entity. to not be attached at the hip with another. yet i cannot wish to be tied down. i wish to be tied, strung delicately and seamlessly at the side of a lover. but not cut deep with the needle that threaded us together. not tied so tightly that i am responsible, for you, and your inadequacy. all of your inadequacy. the collective not good enough. i'm tired of dumbing myself down, the perpetual degradation of trying to make yourself fit into a puzzle piece that isn't quite your size. trying to mend together the bits of a torn photograph that doesn't belong any longer. the forceful act of trying to fall in love. i guess the reality is it is something that cannot be controlled. it's a shame though. that we can't chose. that something else is at work. that we can't get over our reservations and make this life long struggle for completion and satisfaction easier. that there is so much trial and error.
so i yawn. in the late afternoon light that i am blessed to wake up to. gone is the delusion of morning and late late evening and present is the reality of the decisions we make to make ourselves feel better. or at least try to. the adventure of every experience. but i feel distant. removed. impartial to every situation. like all of this feigned emotion has actually just made me numb. and here i sit unable to feel anything but slight discomfort. loneliness. shallow rejection but more consistent awareness of my own faults. my own mistakes in this creation we are trying to make. so i try to let out a little blood. stab the skin gently so the heat is released and my skin is flushed. but it is never worth it. perhaps none of it is worth it. to try so hard. to try so hard to be sewn together when really all that happens is you get torn apart. by the winds of change and the waves of sex. and then you return, isolated, under sheets of desolation and sorrow. of realizing you are not good enough. or more dissapointingly, that they aren't. that that which you idealized isn't in flesh what you thought it would be. and the dream is better than the reality. and the reality just wades on, effortlessly and always, until maybe you accept it. that you are better off alone.
