don't know where else
i am writing here, away from the echoing halls of the internet-at-large, in a solitary shadowy corner of the web, because I am, for the most part, talking to myself.
how cliche it is to witness a confession in which the guilty says "i have reached a new low"? yet that is all that i feel with all of my being. and this feeling too at a time when everything was in its right place, my life had just gotten complicated enough to be simple, what was unattainable was unattainable and what was necessary was necessarily so. but there has been a distinct shift in my perspective, and i can not see with the same eyes as I once did.
what a cacophony i was creating with my utterances; so proud of them i had been in my overwhelming spite. brought to me in angry flashes of inadequacy and dysfunction... flaring up so often and so flagrantly, like the soulless beat of the raindrop footsteps of a vicious storm. the storm has no care at all, except duty: duty to wash away the lines we make in the dirt. there is no right or wrong storm; the storm is. i do not share its eternal luxury. i am not the storm, though i seek its solace. i may be here one day, but perhaps not the next. not a force of nature, but a force of will. and so I have become witness to my own horrifying error. an error of passivity. an error of acceptance.
and then, he tells me that he loves me. the same way he always does, every time different. but this time, i melt. i become the puddle the patter hits.
how cliche it is to witness a confession in which the guilty says "i have reached a new low"? yet that is all that i feel with all of my being. and this feeling too at a time when everything was in its right place, my life had just gotten complicated enough to be simple, what was unattainable was unattainable and what was necessary was necessarily so. but there has been a distinct shift in my perspective, and i can not see with the same eyes as I once did.
what a cacophony i was creating with my utterances; so proud of them i had been in my overwhelming spite. brought to me in angry flashes of inadequacy and dysfunction... flaring up so often and so flagrantly, like the soulless beat of the raindrop footsteps of a vicious storm. the storm has no care at all, except duty: duty to wash away the lines we make in the dirt. there is no right or wrong storm; the storm is. i do not share its eternal luxury. i am not the storm, though i seek its solace. i may be here one day, but perhaps not the next. not a force of nature, but a force of will. and so I have become witness to my own horrifying error. an error of passivity. an error of acceptance.
and then, he tells me that he loves me. the same way he always does, every time different. but this time, i melt. i become the puddle the patter hits.