x'ing out the warm and caring
I've never felt this way before.
It's too easy to say that I don't care.
It's too easy, but I mean it.
I can watch your mouth and recognize the shapes of words as your lips move, but I hear nothing.
I feel not a thing, as this may be bliss and I'm growing colder.
...pointless conversations about the same things.
I want to scream, "Don't you understand that everyone is sad and alone and crying?"
Everyone has their own personal "one great love" story to tell...
Everyone assumes that it will be of some interest to whatever ear it happens to falls upon...
Don't you understand that telling your fiction isn't going to take it away?
it never, ever goes away...
it changes and you deal with it.
"Maybe this time it will have meaning. Maybe this time we can find the answers."
But you're still asking the wrong questions as I'm giving you all the right answers.
You're still failing to see what is real.
You're still writing a story that, let's face it, is so far from reality that not even love can save it now.
I'm tired, cold and waiting for a mouth to speak words that I can hear, words that I can hold in my memory and know that they're real.
All of these stories..
it's all so played out.
I'm dying for an interesting conversation.
I want to hear something new.
I want to live something new.
However, I realize that these stories keep me coming.
The stories that I've grown to hate are all I know..
I'm too old to care and too young to let go... of all the stories we tell..
what to do?
suffer in repetition.