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| Blogs > rockonpeterhuert > If this be my destiny |
Can't you see
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Can't you see I'd been practicing. How to hug. Reading books. Several kinds. I wanted to be good at it. To make you proud. (This was going to be about how much progress I made.) But I stopped because I remembered a funny joke. (That you are gone.) I recall, at some point in my life, being happy. And then, like a clock, falling to the floor and breaking, the face shattering and the hands becoming imobile, forever keeping it's appearance, I too held onto that memory. The world moved on, but I refused to change. No one needs to know my name or what I'm thinking from that point. 'Cause I was the bad guy in this story. And you can't tell me that I'll make it through somehow, or how "God has a special place for you in the world," (you could tell by looking at me.) It's maddening, frustrating, infuriating to think that my memory would decieve me and give me hope of any sort. "She is dead to me," in all it's connotations, that is what must remember. Except one. Because, in the way that broken clocks are right twice a day, you can live again, in my memory. That I could, indeed, wrap my arms around you and feel your warmth against me. The power of your placating words, traveling the distance of your mouth to my ear... However sad a memory it was, I could use it as a platform of sorts. Learn from it, and stand upon it to help me reach new heights. I should stop and check what time it is. I really have no clue. I mean. I never was a funny person since then. I could remember, and I could repeat. But I never really was that way again. And the only time I felt alive was with you. It must be some self defeating personality, that I have to call my own. To like people who will always be out of reach. To want what I can never have. For, it is hope that fools have. And it is the wise that know better. It's fate. It's God. It's anything but my fault. It was out of our hands. So we might as well just laugh about it. And it's funny these days, because I still want to live somewhere with snow. People would stay in their houses, and I wouldn't be forced to stare at their stupid fake smiles. The snow would be cold and hard, like all hearts. And it would always be dark. No one would be there, except those that wanted to be alone. I suppose this has turned into me becoming mature. But it really just feels like I'm dying. (Discontinue indulgance into this line of thinking. I can see no value in it.) I feel great right now. I was thinking about the name of this site, and my original expectations of it. On our old site, I used to write comedy and draw pictures. After the decline of the site, mostly due to everyones lazyness. Here in creating mentally shakey ground. I often wrote stuff to the effect of "I don't like sounding this way." or "Don't read this." Because it didn't sound like my hero BS. So what? It's objectivity that I lost and what ever it is that the knowledge of age is or something or another. I'd like to return to the roots of my early writings. But I'd also like to include the boring stuff I think about in my everyday life.. Not much might change. There may be more writings about how my life sucks. Me being all sentimental or something... Or more funny nonsense. Every time I update, I'll try and bring a little bit of my life into this site. Through that thing on the top. Talks about interests or something? and the other thing at the top. I'm going to do my best to embue what ever I write with some degree of quality. That might mean that, after having a sobfest over a big bowl of Ben and Jerry's, while writing an entry, I might think twice about pushing the submit button. Or I could go weeks plotting out the words for my next entry. I'm not going to take any of this too seriously, and I don't think you should either. Why am I telling you this? I'm not. I'm trying not to forget. Anyways... I'm a little lonely right now. This is me, feeling pretty. |
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