Epistle to Your Former Self

but when the party was over and the others had gone to bed, the man was still awake, lying on his back looking up at the stars. pairing off like Noah's Ark, his friends were happy and he was happy for them so they all were happy. but he wanted to be happier and he wanted to not be a liar and he wanted all these pretty things in life that turned into pretty little disappointments -- rubies that turn to dust in your hand. the stars were starting and flickering and fading and the man was tired of the stars being so far away from him. cold distant light, an anglerfish at the bottom of his heart, tempting him with light and food and water, all of it good for him but none of it real. stars like teeth on a saw, cutting into him every time he looked up. so he decided he would never look up again, he would forget about her, whoever she was, and he would stare down into the earth, that cold, lonely last stop, never really stopping to look where he was going, but always escaping from the starsaws.

and it's easy when you're down. it's harder to stand up, to not crack, to shout fuck you every time someone who said they'd be there isn't. but it's just not possible anymore. you lost that golden glow, the blonde haired girls of your past, you've lost yourself in someone else -- someone who isn't charming or brave or confident or clever. and you get tired of writing these rants that have no end, always thrown off by the pacing of the whole ordeal, always looking for a way out of these worthless words and trying to find a way to become more actual -- more entelechinetic. which is not to say that I'm real anymore, but the process of becoming real would be nice; a wraith in the willows.