I don't have any privacy here. It's the same all over the place really, isn't it? I am surrounded by people, but I'm still all by myself. Having to keep up a pretence of reality or normalcy or sanity helps, but it is still constrictive. No one likes who I am, or who I have become but they won't let me out of this, they won't help me to change, or to grow, or to get out of this at all, what we both so desparately want, moreorless. Achieved in different ways, negligible differences, but sticking points always. It matters to me very much. I am not stopped by anything, yet everything all at once. People, I cannot stand to be around are not here, do not want to be here and yet I mourn their loss, people so many people in general, I wish for one, absolute. Not even that, just someone who knows me or is capable of putting up with me, whilst this change, whilst I learn better to facilitate people, to accomodate. I think now, logically, now I am lead to question whether this is a thing at all to be pursuing. But I needs must in order not to lose the people I love, and it is not governed by reason, as much as you make fun of me for abandoning it, I do not want it. I want to feel, I want to make sense, I want to be, completely. I cannot figure out how to order this world, how to make it out. How to get anywhere at all. I cannot make out these people. This all, it is so superficial. How can I convey to you what I cannot even make sense of myself? I cannot see very clearly at all, and other people - I do not trust them. Am I wrong, then, to be this way. Jen is the only person to understand and she too has thrown me away. I can't hold on anymore, onto anyone, everyone disappearing, ever so willingly. I am happy, I will be, to let some go, Scott, to let go. Because he cuts ever deeper, he always will, his prized position, practiced and, to him, gleaming as my breaker, as the keeper and the key and the instrument of pain. Practiced so very perfectly, precisely. So knowingly, fully aware and proud of his power, this unassailable hold, denting and dirtying everything in my life. And always I would throw it over for him, he knew, completely. I feel inside me, rotting in my veins and so terribly deep, a powerful urge to hurt him, to hurt myself as my punishment & his, all of theirs, those that abandoned me, so that I would forever live on his conscience, irradicable, such as he has always been, but it does no good, because there is me, myself, inside this dented injured casket that is actually, so unrecognisably hopeful, that wants to live and love and breathe and experience, to make some difference, to help. but it is dying, struggling to re-emerge. But why is it? or where does it come from? From this hurt, it is. It is irrevocable, and I cannot seem to escape it, even though I too can see its futility. This boiling anger and this hurt, that I first have to make sense of, to relate. What is it? It was love, or something like it, it was a stretching, enveloping, at first unrecognisable pull and magnetism, but always unavailable to each other, it was always me, running scared & he does not believe, nor will he ever, that it was only that, I was only scared of being so close, of falling into something I didn't know. I was more cautious back then, I was very, too much. And then it was lies, after that. I didn't know at the time, and yet in between so much still between us, it was always us - although he always had so many more & i didn't even know, holly even - i couldn't escape him and i didn't want to, he was to be followed, he was everything, i still get butterflies, i still have to avoid his eyes, and i break completely when he touches me. and yet, and so - it was so sordid, so dirty, so sandwiched between other girls and other kisses, other bodies, drunk so much, and so many lies & protestations of love & excuses. i lived for him - to see him, to have a chance to be his chosen kiss, or something else. and yet, it always lived on, that promise of more meaning, of something too real to escape, or even want to escape, to give up. i was always so scared that i really loved him, that it really was love. it was, but it was the first, the inescapable and all-consuming that burns itself up. we had our real love, our real intimacy before we realised it, all the 'laying about in each others arms, the silences we weren't afraid of' and years after it ceased to be we kept it as a reason to keep it burning, but too much change is wrought. our minds and bodies that have been so closely wound together are fallen apart, out of step and sync, they fall even in completely different directions, and my grasp, intermittent - nostalgia and boredom on your part revive it, while it still burns here, although how much it is not just a need or a wish or a hope to be held & loved & needed, by anyone, although nostalgia makes its claim, but it is not necessarily rose-tinted, we really did love each other, - it is all broken now.
and i mourn for it, of course, i can't escape it not yet, i can't escape seeing him, i can still smell him, and he still kisses me, when there is no one else, when he is bored, there can't be anything else, but i infuse it with too much meaning, i have not followed him that far, it is where we separate - i cannot escape meaning, i can't live that way, without it, without feeling. he is so emotionally cold, but perhaps, i suppose he must be happy, and it isn't painless, not yet, but it will be, i just have to escape & get out of here, out of all this. it always means too much. i have to let go now.

And this is it, it really is the end. Right?

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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