All we have to give in this world is our lives. And mine is already forfeit

That was the last line of my conversation with Tristan last night. And as I said it, I realized it was true. I put a good deal of emphasis and put a good deal of thought into my closing lines in conversations. They are really the most important thing you say from the entire conversation. What you leave the person with, the last thought that will sit on the precipice of their consciousness for a time after you've left each others presence.

I liked having that long conversation with a friend who understands, if not completely, at least he tries to. I've implored him now in a facebook message to do some research on my condition. So few people know, even less understand. I want to have someone who knows whats going on with me when I speak, when I act. I see more and more each day my obvious traits of illness that I am powerless to undo, for I cannot predict but only recognize in hasty regret. I acknowledge it, in looking back, seeing how I failed to act appropriately.

I'm so fucking textbook it makes me sick sometimes. I am an individual, often called by those who know me, one of the strangest people they know. and yet, if you line me up with others suffering from my illness, we are all so touched. I don't know.

The grand discussions depress me. I enjoyed having this debate over existence with him at the time, but I was trapped in this nihilist Möbius strip the rest of the night. It made sleep unsavory, considering the variables of it all, and I didn't want to run into unconsciousness.

I'm being so metaphysical in this blog. No one will even understand what I'm talking about.

Vague.

Writing a letter I don't intend to send.

It's ironic, I've written letters of contempt and condemnation to people I detest, and have every intention of delivering them to these people, like sermons, in person, and maybe even making them cry. I want them to know my rage, register my disgust with their personalities, their actions, their lives, and know I am the monster come for them to collect on their misdeeds. But a message of affection, or of love? I write it, but dare not ever hit send. We are strange beings, these human things. Ah well. Read on, if you'd like. But unless there has been some cataclysmic event altering the way the world works, and you've taken the interest to find my blog, to read my musings, it is not intended for you.

I met you nearly a year ago, and I treated you unfairly. You are beautiful, and I reacted strongly because people are not good. In my experience, those gifted always know it, and are lazy as humans being people as a result. I gave you a nickname, reflecting this, and I told you that you had not proven yourself enough as a person to deserve a name, to deserve me bothering to remember it. This was a lie. I've always known your name. I was petty, and I was jaded, and I was jealous of the ease with which you could bewitch anyone in your presence. With a swift glance, with a lingering smile, with a brush of your smooth hair. We had our conversation on a Wednesday night. I should say, we met, on that night. It has been only 4 days since then, and already I know, you've penetrated my life. It is so rare that I allow another to look upon me with my mask cast off, for fear that they will hurt me, judge me, pity me, thrash the only real part of me there is. My mask can take it. It is wrought in iron, forged in violent flames long forgotten. But I took it off for you, to let you see you are not alone. You have suffered, are suffering, I know, and you feel that there is nothing more to life than this pain, but there is. I've been there, you know my scars, but we go on. I will go on. You will go on, you will mold your own path forward with your trials scattered to the sides. You wont avoid them, but you will soldier forward. I am at a crossroads in mine. I told you in a sterile message that I am considering you, in relation to me, what I want there to be. This is but a half-truth, a lie of omission. The real debate I am having within myself is whether to risk myself with you. We are similar, in how our hearts open to others. I told you, and you said you are like me, that when I love someone, I love them completely. Now, in my logical head I know, that you are beyond me. I've been with beautiful women, women I considered goddesses, but you, are beyond even them. In your appearance, in the way your eyes meet mine, in your damaged soul still begging to be sewed back up, so like mine, in your effervescent, yet fragile, voice. I am not nearly even your equal, and there is no world where you should be mine. I am less fit, I am more psychologically damaged, I have a worse reputation, and I don't even bring money to the table. But I can't stop from feeling that I should be beside you. These last few days I've held my breath, waiting to hear back from you in a message, in a wall post, in a text message or call, and my heart has skipped beats when there's a new message for me, or a new comment notification, but it hasn't been you. Being apart from you, more even then being with you, informs me where I stand. I am frightened by what my knowledge of you will bring me. Am I doomed to be the friend relegated to the side when real prospective partners come into your view? Can I be a good friend knowing that I can't be with you? Will I be able to stay a good man, watching you with another? Knowing how I feel, should I even attempt to be your friend, knowing I might one day be overcome by feeling, and lash out at you simply for not reciprocating my feelings? These are the questions that keep me up at night. You truly are a 10, my friend, in every conceivable way, and I want more than anything else in the world, right now, for your path to intersect mine.

Unexpected Developments

My class was canceled as a result of professor whoever she is, I don't learn names for weeks, never showing up. I waited over half an hour before leaving. My night led me to a Simpsons quote marathon with some friends over a turkey wrap. But, the night got strange after that. Brittany Caro came by. She was a little off, and I wont say why for privacy reasons, but she was off, yeah. I started in on her a little, poking at her ribs with my jibs and jokes. And she got stranger. The conversation became darker, and deeper, and my mask went down, and she got tearful, and it was strange. I was myself, the person I am so very rarely. And she listened, and I listened, and we hit that level of communication where you know it's real, and it's rare, and it's strong. We were with all these people, and they kept quiet, and we talked. And they all listened to me, like they were sitting in church. She was nearly crying during parts, and I was too. When it was done, and I ended it myself, I kissed her on the tp of the head, and told her to get up, and the group walked out. The 4 who live on campus, specifically my friend Brian Talbot, I made him promise to take her to her room, make sure she got there ok. I walked alone to my car, and put my mask back on, and drove home. As she walked away I shouted out the message she needed, and we will go on from here. When I see her again it will be strange again. But, I kind of like strange.














"We are who we choose to be," I shouted, "we are who we choose to be."