move along, move along.
Every other night, every other week -- I forget the recurring patterns -- there are times where I sleep perfectly and am completely comfortable wtih myself. And then there are these nights, in which loneliness feels absolute and almost unfathomable. All the specifics are drowned. There is just a murmur of events and emotions. I believe something to be wrong with me. That I'm not good enough for anything, for anyone. All the amazing people, complex-compound sentences with promising undertones, end suddenly. Fragmented. And every night without the comfort of another warm body leaves me shaken and scared. As if time is not worth racing through. As if continuous, consistent comfort is something I will never obtain. I want a constant. I want an equal.