Not really. In far too many ways. I return once more desiring as much as I do in these times to be heard. How many depressed people resort to this dreary anonymity in the vain wish of understanding by a stranger?
I realize that even though this may not be original or compelling reading, I must continue. I myself can't understand why people sometimes write such recondite tales in their blogs, yet I don't steer clear of the same pitfalls myself.
I feel guilty ... and rightly I should. This is why I want to run away ... though it's more of a run-to - towards the few things that give me faith. One of which is as vaporous as the ghost of Billy the Kid and the other as fragile as the foundations of the tower of Pisa. It's strong enough as it goes, but no one (meaning me) knows when it could just topple over under a previously unforseen strain. So I;m caught here, in a pool of my guilt and too scared too move out into the open lest I get stung with the poisons of consequence and reality.
Sometimes I don't quite know what to say. To people who matter. I mean, what do you say? I realize that my world is far smaller than that of most people, but then if I knew more folk, I'd feel more fear or more guilt. And it tastes like bile in the recesses of my mind from which I cannot expel it. I've played my own sick part in this play of events.
Obtuse, no?
But to be more cheerful. I will be. When I've moved past this and where I want to be instead of wasting this fleeting moments just yearning to be there. At least then I can learn if my desire was futile or not. Learn and grow.
Till the urge overwhelms the mind of me.
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