i think about these things at times. the way your eyes
might glow, the way your skin might feel under touch. yes,
i fancy the thought of my own control, to curl within you,
with my arms, make words with my eyes. but this here is
my spoiling bin, a mind that mocks the eyes I see with,
everything becomes sinfully bastardized, and if i perhaps
felt i didn't need to question, then I wouldn't, but i'm
always on shaking ground. I'm always potentially slipping
away into a void. All of this is a toy, and illusion. I like to
pretend inside my head that things are well, but yet
another part screams in her silence, questions all things,
proven or just a fragment of possibility. everything curls
inward, and thoughts become obsessions, lifelines, a way
to go on when you can't get the answer you need. and i
never have the answers. there are only more questions stirred from
answers, where in everything makes no sense
in it's chaotic assembly. i am watchful of your teeth, your
ability to bite back. and more over then that, i fear my
ability to bite you, tear you slowly to pieces until you have
become more of a disgrace then i ever have been. but this
is not the way of my angels, i just imagine your eyes,
faking blue, to dream forever within them. to settle, where
there is uproar, to know where there is reasonable doubt.
like science, all things i think are subject to change,
always rethinking themselves, only par assumed. i want my
life back, everything i've lost! they say this shouldn't hurt,
but gods it does. everything matters, no matter how little i
am paying in regards to it, it all matters. she hates me
because i cannot see eye to eye on her religion, she's
upset because i never listened.. but i listen now,
and she walks away. she walks away because she gave
me so many chances, and i stepped on her. i never wanted
to give her pain, i wanted to steal her kiss, and now i fear
doing it again. i fear not getting her back, i fear her forever
seeing me as good-for-nothing, only bearing pain, that
strange guy with the twisted tongue who's too caught in
his delusions to ever come out. do i want out? or do i like
my twisted words, and small dramas which mean so much
to me? do i rather be social and have nothing phase me, or
feel these waves of emotion cascade me into a fit of tears,
tears i no longer cry? i thought i'd never run out again, but
now i'm locked so hard inside the lucid water that i can't
get in. i can't get out. and i can't even think.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Phaestian, in the year 288 AF.