two metaphorical

I feel like I was working on a puzzle; you know how at the beginning you are all careful and sort out the pieces into edge pieces and not edge pieces, and then you get the frame put together and you start working on the more obvious sections of the puzzle and you get those put together, and then you start working on the harder, littler stuff? And then some schmuck comes along who crumbles the entire thing in their hands and dumps the pieces back in your lap and you have to start all over again, holding the same pieces, but you are somehow expected to put them together in such a way that you create a different picture.

I feel like a dog who has to pee so badly he comes running out of the other room and charges headlong into the sliding glass door that he knew was there, but he could so so plainly his ultimate objective on the other side, and then all he can do is just sit back and stare blankly at the glass that he suddenly remembered was there, and feel stupid because he knew, the whole time he fucking knew that it was there.

Life is too short to pissed off all the time. Sure I feel empty. Sure, I feel cheated, I feel fucked without a kiss, I feel hurt and bitter and heartbroken just like every other time, but every other time, being a dick to her, being an asshole to everyone else, and basically being a shithead to be around really didn't make me feel any better, any less fucked. So why put everyone else through it? Why put myself through it?

I'm tired of being lonely, I'm tired of being angry, and I'm tired of being depressed. I see the world in shades of grey with a soft focus and a matte finish. Like an 8x10 glossy minus the luster and drama and inherrent sexiness of a black and white photograph, with that elusive, just-beyond-your-grasp feeling of a not quite focused shot. She's taken the blue out of my sky....I just want to dream in color again.

No word yet from Alanis Morisette whether or not this is ironic...

"I love you."
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of Hurting you again"
"Then don't."

"You know, avoiding this because you are afraid of what might happen, has in fact, caused the thing that you are afraid of in the first place. Every time I see you, my heart does a little jump, for that fraction of a second before I remember that I can't be with you. And then a little piece of me dies."

"I'm not worried. I trust you."

"You know what I want more than anything else in the world right now?"

*insert here the softest, most anticipated kiss of my life*

"Sorry."
"Don't be."

*She kisses me*

And just like that, everything I want is suddenly staring me in the face, finally admitting that she wants me back.

bliss

Some things are worth waiting for. Three hours in a hot tub with the most beautiful woman in the world. I think that qualifies.

bile

Some stories are just painful to experience.

So inspired, so ready, so altruistic, even now. Only to get socked in the gut.

I have to get out of here.

a boy called hopeless

I'm laying here, just holding her. Each breath takes her in, the warmth, the proximity, her very presence is intoxicating. I want her. I want her more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life. Before I met her, if you had asked me what my ideal was, I could not have told you, and now, she is here in my embrace. And there isn't a damned thing I can do or say that will change anything. I can't give her anything else. I can't do anything. All I've done, everything that I've given her, everything I've gone through for her, everything I am just isn't enough. And that is the worst feeling I've ever had in my life. I don't want to eat, I don't want to sleep, I don't want to rehearse, I don't want to write, I don't want to do anything except crawl into bed, hide under the covers, and cry.

But I won't. Instead I'll just tell myself that my happiness doesn't depend on anyone else -- I'm responsible for my own emotional health. I'll tell myself to quit feeling so sorry for myself. I'll tell myself to move on, because there is obviously nothing else I can do here. Insanity is trying the same things over and over and expecting to get a different result. I'll listen to depressive music, I'll do my homework, I'll go to my rehearsals and my social gatherings and seek my comfort elsewhere.

But this sick emptiness does not go away. I can hide it, I can run from it, but I can't fix it,