I think again of a dear dying friend,
Whose life has been lived and is now going to end,
I wonder what dreams that she still had to meet
And of all the promises she cannot keep,
And locked away somewhere, inside of her deep,
Are there still some secrets that she alone keeps,
I wonder of promises she cannot keep,
And burdens that she insist she alone keeps.

A promise of peace and of present pain felt
To dissolve in the dirt of the Earth is fulfilled.
The living are dying, but they shan’t forget
Of friends whom have left them before their own end,
Of friends whom they cherished and loved till the end
With only condolences left to extend,
I think of once more of a dear dying friend.

I don't want to tell her anything
That's what makes it fun
To have it all said in my eyes
For me,
That's what makes it fun.

When she looks at me,
I think I see
An angel in disguise,
But whats she sees
In a guy like me
Is nothing to her delight.

But that's okay
I don't care,
To be loved is not the goal,
To have her even look at me
That's what makes it fun.

I love this book.
Journey to the End of the Night
by Louis Ferdinand Celine.
I will never reread it.
It was enough to read once.
I have tried rereading it.
I could not.
It is too tiresome.
I feel this way about so many people.
I think fondly of them,
But will not miss them,
Perhaps they think of me sometimes
And maybe remember me somewhat favourably,
But they will not miss me.
Oddly, I find this comforting,
Perhaps it’d be better if we forget each other,
So somewhere we can meet for the first time again.
I long to read Journey to the End of the Night for the first time again.

Even if I am a disgrace
I have aspired to be more.
If I never amounted to anything,
It is not my parent’s fault,
If my life turns out meaningless,
It is only because I am frail,
I was never unlucky,
There has always been someone helping me,
I am responsible for my own unhappiness.

The drizzling rain
Is of little comfort
But the soft pats against my window
Feel somewhat encouraging.
However,
The blanket of grey clouds,
Extending into the horizon,
Give off a sense of endlessness,
Such that the hopeless torrent
Of past mistakes
Will be forever present.
My life would be easy
If I could throw myself to the ground
And beg for forgiveness.
Perhaps someone should have been born instead of me,
But I cannot bring myself to say
That I am better off dead.

If I can live honestly from now on,
Even if I never amount to much,
I will have a live worth living.

Do your friends
Still talk about me?
I wonder.

Of all the things I e’er done,
The talks I miss the most,
Of which to night would not succumb,
Or morning force repose.

Of all the things I’ll e’er do,
I hope once more to say
The words which I had come to find
Were absent yesterday.

For all the things I wished I did,
I wish that I said less
As silence is much better heard
Than nonsense, I confess.

The moonlight splinters through the blinds
To show in darkness one can find
The place where one might ought to be,
Yet absent, unbelievably.
Regardless of whom she spends her nights,
The same moon which reveals he
Is the same one which had shadowed me,
Painting us in equal light;
Strangers of the lingering night.
Whether from the covers of a stuffy bed,
Or in winter cold instead,
It matters not, as you can see,
It is for him, not me or he.
And softly into the night we sink,
We three, with all the time to think
With who it is we want to be
Wasting time thus carelessly,
As he and I dream up the same,
And she thinks of a different name,
The night deepens, the moon shines forth
A missing person, a missing fourth.

And thus it ends,
Essentially,
We always look for someone else,
Across the street, behind a door,
Around the corner, on the next floor,
It matters not, I must admit,
No effort which one may submit
Can change the fact of where we are,
He and I, him and her
Separated by a comma in a poem,
Separated by a thought in someone’s head,
Clumped together in a warm cafe,
Lonely in each one’s own way.
I am certain, I am sure
He and I are equals in nothing
Except worthlessness.