(no subject)
im riding easy, but i dont know what im doing. aside from typing out my thoughts as they fly at me, once again. i believe ill try to sketch it into a tradition. and on the nights im away from a computer, ill try to record it in my leatherbound journal instead. the one thats been through so much that i finally abandoned it a year ago. actually, more than that. two years ago almost. i guess its time to forgive and forget. i always thought that forgiving would be easier than forgetting, but it really isnt the case. its so much easier to just forget that things ever happened, because then you arent ever forced to forgive them. or you could just not ask for forgiveness, like that one guy thats been teaching me a lot recently. not necessarily good lessons, but lessons nonetheless. nothings really clear, but i feel like id like to move to the city. new york is the craziness of life jumbled together into one comprehensive entity. fast motion. merciless. indifference. all thrown over a million ants of love and happiness. just jump right in and forget it all. so them ill never have to be forgiven. what are goals anyways? why do we have them? is everything just desire thats reined in by expectations. he doesnt believe in expectations, or fast food, or television, seatbelts. theres a whole list that i'll have to record in his memoir that he'll never get a chance to write. i promised id write it for him if he died before he got around to it. he almost made me fulfill that promise last week. blue faced, lying on the bed, slipping away from this life that he has such disdainful joy in. id rather not think of it. instead lets fast forward, to tomorrows tomorrow. how will things play out? its times like this that the trepidation begins to build and all kinds of nightmarish imaginings force their way into my movie-screening brain. abandonment, flippancy, interest... all the scenarios play out and about and hopscotch as i watch in horror. like the fing around the rosies we teach to children, hidden meanings and metaphors for the black death. will it be my own? my own plague ive inflicted on myself with this neverending need to help. fix things. i told him i was good at fixing things as i duct-taped his dresser drawer once more, yet maybe its not that im good at it, its just that i cant help trying. am i even whole myself? im a whole lot different, thats for sure. the pictures of years past speak for themselves, showing me myself in a way i can hardly recall. will the same be true for the future? will i look back and wonder at my naivety? i already am. but that doesnt take it away. i just believe in too many people too easily but i cant help but try. i think i may be searching for my own novel, and those that dont need me would make for fairly boring plots. theres got to be that rising action, that intrigue, dispair. im just asking for heartache, but for some reason it just seems so worth it. so much more tangible and meaningful than those insignificant others. but hed scoff at that. for what is meaning? me trying to hard. he told me not to try to figure him out, couldnt figure out why id want to. i should have showed him a novel. showed him his place. his character. then hed understand its essential, and that my inability to understand him, even if i want to, only adds to the suspense. its all a movie, and as he told me, as it was the most obvious thing in the world, during our discussion on death- his time isnt up yet. the ending would be boring. and though he hates expectations, and loves disappointing, theres nothing he hates more than boredom.