I stopped because it hurt much to say anything. The substance sounds like drivel. The entirety of everything seemed to become so large, yet my want is always larger. Maybe my apathy is killing me more than the smoke. More than the sleepless nights and wine. My knowledge of what needs to be done seems so difficult. Like the road I can't walk up; too vertical. My lungs are burnt. But there's still pink in there. Even if a little. There's still hope. I don't feel so poorly, or lost as I was before. What grips me is the fear of inability. What stifles me is the supposition of inadequacy. I want to write about all the good. I want to right myself into all things good. I want to tell you a blessed bedtime story. "This is how we make it better." This is where the light shines in. But in truth, I can't make that light. I can't spark that flint within my spirit. I work and I sleep and I moan. And I am sick of all of those things. I'm sick of feeling like the proverbial fuck up with a fancy life. Nothing is that wrong. My mind is a friend and enemy. And my strengths dovetail my weaknesses. They sleep together and make no babies. They fondle each other and confuse me.
I want. I am both hopeful and desperate. A walking dichotomy. Make it well.
