At the end of my tether with everything and everyone, every institution that's trying to fuck us over and every time something doesn't go my way. Consequential fist fights and fucks, this is the age of try your luck and it might turn out okay. Other than that there's no course of action but to drag a suffering self esteem along one of the fruitless paths offered to those that can't afford to buy every shortcut to the top. Spent and bored of walking the line between trying to be the person you want to be and missing the mark with who you really are. Lose contact with sense and self control; one, one-way ticket to dead end prospects and double negatives.
We don't need to have a reason to join forces, apart from the common denominator; hands up if being controlled fucks you off? It's incomprehendible; fierce or falling apart. The choice is yours, it could be us on the same team. Nothing is ever as bad when someone else is there to face it with you. Stand in the face of the future and maybe you'll agree that it's without limits or boundaries or half hearted Government tricks. Our's for the taking; mine for the taking. Who knows? This could all turn out for the best.
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An audience, the spectator. I write for myself and no one else, although anyone's welcome to read of course. Audience a) Spunky, to console in instances where my head gets too filled up to make sense b) Jimmy, no doubt she has a minor interest in keeping up with everything c) those who I have yet to meet and keep at arms length. And d) the object of my projected affections, NB: you do not exist in my reality yet.
Back to the,
Turn down the contrast. You and I, we're not so different.
A move to be made, words to be conveyed, skin to touch and eyes to hold each other for more than a fleeting glance. Every gesture takes ten times longer. I'm so out of my depth the prospect of intimacy sends shivers of terror down my spine. You take your time, take as long as I have; the days will run down until the X is reached and all this stops to make way for a new chapter, or interval, depending on how successful the next three years turn out to be.
Caught in the adolescent limbo of soul-searching and heart-wrenching. No matter how great an effort is made, one who does not know themselves cannot allow others to attempt to know them at any level that means anything. Canvas in features, attributes and character flaws that are in temporary position. Each flow, gush of hormones goes straight to the head and moulds a new aspect. What did you expect, stability? Unpredictable and unprecedented - it's all good until it's turned on it's head, and what you're left with. A work in fucking progress.
Needs: stimulation, inspiration, motivation, affection and attention, conversation, and pacification. I am in the priviledged position of having a friend who provides all these and more, most of the day, every day. She's level pegging with anyone else I have ever been close to in how much I open up and how far into my head she gets. It becomes a burden for anyone to carry another's impossibilities; I'm scared to be without her. I'm scared of being alone.
Your intensity kills me; that will never change and always hang over our heads and hearts. It will get too much to bear. All I can think of is George sitting in his room with a gun in his mouth and what it must have taken him to get there.
That's it.
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