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.