I can't do this, it's not even possible. Tired, of this being the only thing alive, now and intermittently, reoccuringly. But it is, it always is, it always the vein that runs through everything I do and it keeps going. No, I think it is confused, it is something like this. This is a little dirtier, worse for wear. This is absolutely something, some perverse extension of the blood, or electricity. It is pathetic too, to rely on something, someone, so brutally fickle and unforgiving, selfish and egocentric. The worst part is that I understand, I can't escape.
The veins are deeper, relentless and they are caught up in this, yes. And this is escape, this is feeling, or it might be, could be. I always think that it might be, that this is the only way out- but it isn't, because there is more to living than this, there is more to feeling than hanging on, hoping, pretending. But it is too much to ignore, and it inflates feeling, builds it up into some, self-righteousness? I can feel, and I'm not afraid to, and I'm not superficial and I'll do anything I have to, to be able to feel, or plunge into life (and mistakes) like this. And it flies past everything, it's selfish and it means more than absolutely everything - that is the reason for the hurt, for the confusion? For the sidelining of almost everything that matters, because I always want to believe that this is it, that this is what it was meant for, that it means, it meant, more than anything else, so much you could throw everything else over. I do anyway, whether it is or not. I'm still aching to throw everything over. For you, for this, or for what it was.
Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: