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a disturbing last letter you will never read. And in the dreamy summer still nights there will always linger some small sense of something indescribable, beyond the both of us, beyond anyone, indecipherable and wholly ours. It's nice to have some token to reflect upon in those moments of subtle introspection, when the world fades to black and the stage lights drop low for your monologue. I lost the gift you gave me in the desert, amidst thousands of strangers and some lost sense of who I thought I was. I found it again somehow, out there, in the dunes, when I was walking. But it suddenly felt empty. Springtime no longer held strong in those glass walls. Winter had crept in and spoiled the spirit you left me. I'm still learning how not to be angry. I'm sure I will be able to forgive you someday. But it will be too late by then. It is already too late today. So this is more to myself than you. Or maybe I am harboring some false hope that this will find its way to you somehow. It is hard to tell these days. I'm not a very nice person. I'm sure people don't say very pleasant things behind my back. And there are a whole bunch of people who would say I'm paranoid. And they're right. I always have been. And now I have this slow sinking dread that maybe things aren't going to turn out Hollywood afterall. This might actually be it. I forget my role every now and again, but I pick back up and keep playing along. I suppose its not too likely that our drama is going to continue. You did a good job of ending that. Rings and wedding days will do that to a romance. I'm sinking deeper and deeper into my own small world and I imagine you and feel nothing but anger. It freezes me. I'm going numb. How do you cope with hatred at an idea, at an action, but not at a person? How does someone who says they love you just stop talking to you? Part of me feels like I've gone insane and managed to convince the world I'm normal, but the inside is murderous. It makes me nauseous. I close my eyes and see blood. I feel psychotic. And I walk down the street and look around me and think "what the fuck is the point of all this?" And I can't for the life of me figure out why any of this matters. Honestly, I can't believe you did what you did. It doesn't compute, either all the things you told me were lies or you have one cold fucking heart, and if my actions spurred it all on then it just says a whole lot about me now doesn't it? Like I said, I'm not a very nice person. And you know, I just can't see any way to murder my way out of this one. All I see are broken hearts and prison bars. And I'm angry at everyone. I want to give a fuck, but I don't. I saw the house that you moved into last night. It was nice. Very homey. You weren't there. I walked through all the rooms and just felt my blood pulsing. I ran into the bathroom and puked. Somehow I knew where it was. Just as I walked onto your front porch, a car drove by and smashed a hammer into a little girl's head. Right there, in front of your house. She was dead. There wasn't anything I could do. I just collapsed on the pavement and curled up into a fetal position, staring at the blood pooling onto the sidewalk. You never came home. I woke up screaming. ----- nighttime endeavors - 2:32 a.m. , February 13, 2040 the beast - 11:43 p.m. , May 04, 2005 its all here - 8:41 p.m. , May 01, 2005 where'd you go psycho boy? - 8:59 p.m. , April 30, 2005 the moments you wont remember - 12:01 a.m. , April 30, 2005 |