(no subject)
The sad thing is I sympathize for you.
At what point is life less about living and more about love and love becomes your life and living is the best feeling in the world? At what point are desperation calls too desperate especially when they dictate whether or not you are sleeping on a bed or sleeping on a bench? At what point are your words not exactly what they seem but seem to mean everything you never dreamed they mean? At what point will your friends become critics and dictate who you fuck and who you date?
I know where you go at night.
Gentle giant, there's a simple science to love and life, an equation that's figured out so quickly, it happens almost over night. But not for you, its journey after journey, i guess its all self discovery, mourning, and recovery. It's sleeping under the stars, and waking up to the sun enlightened maybe the first few times, but disappointed every time after that. Its the color of your skin, its the shade of your lips, its everything about the world, and nothing about yourself. Where do you go when the sun escapes the sky? What do you do when there is no where left to hide? Question and answer; the newest cancer. The plague, the debt, the new regret. So what's one more night? The dependable deplorable nature that is life.
Empty shell of a home
Empty shell of a man.