The closest thing I had felt to home in the longest time.
I just wrote a poem to try and help myself forget something that happened recently, but stopped midway through, because I realised that it was futile. To forget something, or to move on from something, closure is important, as is realisation. What am I moving on from? Nothing concrete was said and the rational part of my mind told me that it was doomed the entire time, that it was inevitable, that I was a fucking fool to get involved in the first place. What did I think was going to happen? Nothing. And nothing did happened, nothing real. Yet the irrational part of my mind cant take it. As I type I can feel my blood rising along with the temptation to give into a vitrolic rant. What would I rant about? Emotions like hurt, jealousy, insignificance. Abstract concepts like brotherhood and trust and betrayal. I can rant quite well if I do say so myself, but a rant about this would be completely impotent. I cant change anything, nor do I want to. I dont even have the right to, if I'm honest with myself. Every sentence I could write would fall off of the surface of the earth through the weight of its irony, would fall on deaf ears. Its all been written down a thousand times before by better writers and better human beings than myself in worse situations, even within this very livejournal about different women. Writing to get over something is at best shameless self-indulgence. But I am a writer, and there isnt much else I can do. I suppose I could write a cliched song on my acoustic guitar about all those emotions and abstract concepts, but it would take time and effort that I dont have, and at the end of the day it would be rubbish. So please forgive this self-indulgence, I'm just trying the best I can to reach some sort of closure. God knows I'm not going to get it from anywhere else.