it isn’t that I have anything to say, it is I have no one to say anything to. it makes a difference.
the words that don’t get said, the thoughts no one cares to hear get all backed up and I cannot stand it any more and have to write them down
flooding the airwaves with incessant ramblings of a man long gone insane
but the words change when not in conversational tone, they become something different when strung together and spat against the cold brick wall
what may have been softly spoken whispers of adoration become bloody open wounds, gentle loving purrs become chainsaws, and little lies become great truths in the form of ripped off scabs ugly sobbing diatribes against perceived injustices
all I want is to reach over and pull her in close and let the world burn away, kiss the top of her head and know everything is going to be okay
instead I have questions with no real solutions, a pit growing bigger by the day that I barely skirt the edge of, and unrequited love
I guess I want you to know that there is layers under what is written, that sometimes a cry for help is legitimate
there is a man under this avalanche, frozen and confused and achingly sad
achingly, heart breaking sorrow just erupts endlessly except for those rare moments when they become words and action again
there is a global butter shortage happening, prices have raised more than 60% in the US alone
the regulated French economy has quotas and limits set, if you cannot have a goddamned croissant with butter than what hope is there for anything?
how can I hope to connect with someone when I cannot guarantee that if we flew to Paris we could have buttered pastries and romantic sex?
it is hopeless, all so glum and morose
I guess we just have to hold on to the moments when life happens so these stagnant periods seem lifelike
bleh. meh. ugh. bang. splat. sploosh.
I’m gonna deaden my electric field for a smidge, power down as is, not think about buttered croissants or being lonely
I love you