Hi again.

It's been a while.  Let's see if I remember how to do this.

Words words words, and all that jazz. The stream of consciousness flows into the river of digression. I used to write, in order to sort out the pieces of the puzzle in my head.  See if I could somehow discover, or translate the bigger picture from the tiny fragments. I thought of it as therapy.

Yet here I am, all this time later, and still fucked up as I ever was. So obviously the therapy didn't work.  I still write.  Other forms. Different mediums. Just closed a play, but this particular vomit of venacular won't go into that.  That one's for later.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe not.

I quit smoking almost a year ago.  That's gone well.  I'm still quit, so I guess that's a thing, but damn if I didn't feed the pain of it with crisco, and put on about 30 pounds.  Now I'm working to get rid of that...but this post isn't about that either.

So what is this post about?

Fucked if I know. 

Except I do.

Except for a guy who knows more than a few words, I sure am shit at using them when it comes to putting what's in my head, in to some digital coherence that only 6 people ever will read anyway.

And even though I know that this will accomplish nothing, mean nothing, and achieve nothing, I do it anyway. Oh well. Isn't that the nihilistic truth of all things?  But even if it does mean nothing, does it really mean nothing, if it means something to me? Is there value in the takeaway that even if there is some residual pain, loss, emptiness, there was at some point at least a joy that preceeded it. Perhaps the value is where we place the perception. Do I remember and celebrate the joy that once was? Or the emptiness that remains now with it's loss? Is there some way to place both on the scale and see which side weighs out?

Does it even matter?

Is it really better to have loved and lost...and all that jazz?

I find myself a bit quixotic in my little emotional adventures. Tilting at emotional windmills, that would be giants, if they were real. I seem to find myself in known quandries, of known quantities, of no means to no ends that cannot possibly end well, and diving in with full knowledge of inevitable outcome, willingly paying the cost for a few moments of...I dunno...

Reality.

I am the one thing in life I can control.

Except maybe I can't.

I'm willing to wait for it.

Except I know that the wait is eternal, and will never bear fruit.

And I do it anyway.

Because I can't not.

And my god how I love. I love. I love.
And before I even let myself begin, I know the price of it. I do. I know.  I know the end before it begins, and I begin anyway.

I will let my heart be broken every day.  I will sleep alone, with the memory of every her, who could never be.

My heart has broken.
My heart is broken.
My heart will be broken a thousand times more, and I will fucking cherish every one.  And every name.

And every fantasy, and every dream, and you and you and you have scratched your name into a piece of me that will turn to dust with my skin and bones.

And that moment you gave me.
It is in me.
And I'm selfish.
You can never have it back.
And I will always wish for more moments. I will always want more. I am insatiable...

But that one is with me.
And I am grateful.

Thank you.

Thank you for that kiss in the dark.
Thank you for that secret touch.
Thank you for that single moment of vulerability...because...

even though the lights are on now,
and reality has returned,
and that moment has passed,
and we are once again all the things we have to pretend to be...

You let me see you.
and taste you
and get the sense of you that maybe you don't share with many people...

but I am one

and you are one

and we

Well...

We will never be one...

and now we chase the giant windmill
the noble quest
the endless search

For the next heartbreak.