Getting over...

I'm not. I'm not getting over any of them.

I've had a lot of time to "live with myself" lately... trying to deal with all of the things I don't have to address when I just keep running 1000 miles an hour.

It doesn't help. I sit in my car talking to this confidant or that, being open, getting informal therapy, getting through life just... maintaining. Barely.

I know only fantasy, only the hope that someday I'll hope. I know only tears and sad songs, only pain at being left, alone, neglected, and hurt.

I've cried so long and fought so hard. I'm just tired now.

A friend said to me today, "you used to struggle to fit in, to fake it, but now you -- you're resigned to it. You're fight has given way to apathy."

And she's right. I'd rather be fighting, because it implies all the wonder and strength that is youth, even if the trip is painful and the journey arduous.

I'd rather be anything. Anywhere. Anyone. Any place but here.

And so I stay up late late late, so late it's early, and when the movie ends, the book closes, and the song concludes, there's still me, trying not to be alone with my thoughts right before I fail yet again to fall asleep without thinking of some girl who didn't really love me. Like she said she did, or said she would, or just showed me for a brief moment before the facades all fell away and the hopeful, innocent little boy I was sometime a long time ago died yet another small death.

--

Resigned. To the fucked up world that is everything I've ever known. A world without a god, where people are just selfish pricks, and...

I guess I don't really believe that. Maybe I wish I did because I just hate the idea of facing the day. Today, tomorrow.

It's funny... the "light at the end of the tunnel" bullshit just popped into my head. The fucked up thing is that you can't tell you're in a tunnel if it's pitch black. Or that you're at the bottom of the well.

If I died today, it would be so poetically tragic, the man-boy who had it all, yet couldn't find even the smallest peace. If only it would mean something.

Because like everything else in this world, there's not a whole lot that's special. Not me, not mom, not the girls, not work, nor play, nor that game-winning jump shot.

No one remembers. No one cares. No one wonders. And no one never, ever, ever stays. Protects. Loves.

I've inspired and achieved, earned and learned, hoped, dreamed, and even loved. Why can't I have any back?

Where's mine? When is it my turn? Can I ride the pony? I don't care if it's the smallest one or the ride already started or the saddle is broken. Just let me ride it a little. Please?