I haven't written in a long time cause normally I write about how sad or upset I was. I haven't been sad in a while. Actually. But today I don't know how I feel. I don't know what tomrrow holds anymore. I don't know who or what or what makes me happy anymore. I've always liked being alone and maybe that's just the way God or whatever is out there wanted me to be. I mean is there always someone for everyone? How do you know ? You dont. Can people just love one human and be okay with that? Why put trust and love in someone if they don't put trust and love in you? How can you sleep and come home to someone and not be fully in love with them and when something new comes along and forget all you ever had with them? I didn't ask to be here but here I am and it kills me. I always thought if you were a good person good things happen to you. But here I am. And that's not true. Nothing is true. Love is just a made up word to please us. To make us feel something when there's nothing to feel at all.

Love is like the wild rose-briar;
Friendship like the holly-tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,
But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
He still may leave thy garland green.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

I am tired of permanently loving temporary men.