whatever dude

I haven't felt this desired in a long time. Hoping, maybe this isn't anything closely related to a safe bet. I feel the connection. Connectivity usually leads to a hard case of self sabotage though...But I feel she might have the patience to wholly love me. And I feel I might have finally found something genuine. The world seems to have a little more color since she came around.

I'm finally learning to let go. Discovery in the form of egoless loss. I preach a lot, but don't practice the shit. Empty words only used as coping mechanisms for insecure delusion. I'm learning to love and let go. I'm learning to be patient and wait and find a connection that healthily stays. It's fucked, and I'm jaded, but I just can't be victim to complacent love anymore. I'm still desirable and I have options, but I'd rather sit back and watch these interpersonal implosions from a distance, than willingly involve myself as some disposable test subject. The results are real, but the intent is flawed. They want what I have to give, but have nothing to give in return.

I've been writing books. Pages upon pages. Only meant to be seen after it all. Hopefully it'll mean something. Fuck. The constant internal battle won't end. I know that. I'll always fight. But it's good to be prepared.

Fuck. Living alone. Being alone. Can't undo the past. It's taken its toll. I'm trying really hard, but I can't do it anymore. Consider this my last love letter.

But don't we all solely exist to be just an idea of egotistically emphasized emptiness?

Fun fact about working security at a dingy dive bar: you hear white men complain more about not getting cocaine than you do about the multitudes of guys hitting on their girlfriends.

You just want me to say I love you back. But how can I? Especially when I'm not sure if I still do. Two hours after you left, the one I've currently entertained crawled back into my bed. Wearing just as little as you were. Both still felt empty. Just like me/them all. I can't keep getting used as a route to self discovery. I am not the couch in a therapist's office; the nest for an un/indecisive implosion. There will never be enough goddamn lawn mowers going outside to dampen the sound of how miserable this is. Beautiful creatures creating nothing but regrettable memories.

Eternally anxious. Default set at uneasy. Fill the in between with comfortable lapses of judgment. There's a woman in my bed, but I'm not home; currently distracting a woman who used to. Neither one are mine, and I'll never be their's. This shit is old. Stale. I'd rather give myself to a twelve pack, an eight ball, and time spent alone. These self fulfilling delights have self deprecating ends.