It seems to me, my friend, that you have this perverse fascination with breaking your life.
No good can come of this.
You can lead a horse to water...

I’d like to think it was a great poet who once wrote
“Got too much to care about; it sends chills up my spine: Too many feelings, with less and less time. Breaking my back and breaking my heart, these loves are tearing my mind apart.”
It wasn’t.
It was me.
This has nothing to do with anything.

I’m glad the galaxy doesn’t revolve around me; my lack of gravity would send everything spinning off into black.
If I spin faster, can I shake off the world?
Is her persistence merely delaying an inevitable departure, or is she here to stay?
And what about her?
Can I trust her, or am I entertainment -- her own personal car crash, her own train wreck?

Your cynicality is an inversion of your Romantic way.
Your alternate poles are respectively sadistic and masochistic, and it turns your world around.
Like a dog chasing its own tail, your paradoxical continuum will eventually tire.
Strong hands are worthless with weak knees, my friend.  

Maybe you ought to lie down.

There’s a reason I don’t smoke
or get high
or get low
or drink.

Don’t I seem ****** up enough to you?

Insecurity.
Is that it?
Lack of trust, because of intrinsic insecurity?
I don’t know what I’m trying to say.

That’s a first.

I love you, but sometimes I’m crazy, sometimes I’m out of my mind.
But sometimes you don’t understand my crazy as well as I’d like you to.
Why can’t you just read my mind?

If telepathy was only an option--

...

...

...

Get it?

I just want a connection, man.

Can somebody tell me what the **** is going on?
Of course not.
I thought we were doing so well.
Everything was on the mend.

What a lie.
False faith.
False hope.

Depression kills.
Mania revives, electrocutes, so depression may return, and work its art once again.
Cyclical execution.

I want to be saved now.
I’ve dealt with this long enough, haven’t I?
It hasn’t been graceful, I agree, but there is no grace to be had.
I want someone to hold me and to tell me they understand me, even if they don’t.
Is that too much to ask?

I wish I was ignorant enough to find religion.
Atheism leaves you with no stupid ideals to run to for a warped sense of salvation.

So what is happening?

She’s kissing him.
He grins and touches her leg, right where you used to touch her.
You have to watch as he whispers to her, and she nods slowly.
You have to watch as her shirt falls to the floor.
His pants drop to his heels, and you have to watch her degrade herself.

A flash, perhaps.
She climbs on top of him, and loves, him, and they both enjoy it.
Of course.
The sacred skin you barely dared to touch, he defiles like fast food, or a rest room.
No thought.

**** testosterone.
****.
Love.
**** love.

Can you be jealous of things that have happened?
Envious of a ghost of the past?

Where can you hide when your mind is out to get you?

I wish I knew.
I wish I knew what was coming.
I can’t see the future.

Here’s something else:
Cats are enabled with an evolutionary trait called "tapetum lucidum,” also known as eyeshine.
It reflects light inside their corneas, and allows them to see in the dark.
But, if I also had tapetum, would I want to see what the dark holds?
Would I want to see what lies in the dark?
Would I want to see the future, if I could?

Instinctively, I think I would.
But the Romantic inside of me would regret the choice.
I’m regretting it now.
But some perverse way would persuade me otherwise, to look forward, so as to foresee mistakes I don’t have to make.

I don’t want to make any mistakes.
But I don’t want to cheat.
I’m a paradox, and I’m broken.
But I’m not a cheater.

I know the rules, and however much I don’t enjoy it, I will play by them.