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War All The Time
|You were supposed to visit this week. Spring Break has been completely unsatisfying, nothing more than empty days for me to spend countless hours trapped in my own mind with very few options for recreation. In hopes that you are not dead or anything along those lines, I am completely convinced that you simply do not give a fuck about me anymore. No other explanation makes sense. People do not just fucking disappear without a reason.|
I would have appreciated a proper goodbye. You could have said goodbye. You could have given me that, at least. After 107 phone calls over the course of two weeks, I quit. I give up. I am done with my attempts. If I ever hear your voice again, it will be you speaking to me, not an answering machine filling me with false hope.
I expect too much from people. I expect them to be too fucking good. What am I looking for? What the fuck am I looking for? Why does everything let me down? Why am I never satisfied? I do not know what is broken inside of me, and I do not know when it was broken. I am completely sick of having people leave me. I am completely sick of missing people. It is hard to tell if caring about people is worth this anymore.
How do you erase somebody from your mind? If by some miracle you manage to accomplish that task, how do you erase them from your heart? I do not know where to begin.
You could have said goodbye. Maybe then I wouldn't miss you so fucking much.
|Tags: journal, personal, blog, sad
|I have had this feeling in my stomach before, and it is reserved for the worst of situations. I cannot decide if I want to cry my eyes out, or if I want to vomit. I will fight the urge since I would rather not wake anyone up with my distress. That would lead to questions, questions would lead to explanation, explanations would lead to a breakdown.|
This is a game of chess that I have been losing for years.
He was right. People are not good to each other.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock
|Tags: journal, blog, personal, sad, Bukowski
|The Truth About
Today is your birthday. How does it feel to turn 22? It's not as exciting as it seemed it would be, is it? I always thought that after turning 21, there aren't many milestones left worth celebrating.
I have realized that every day is worth celebrating.
You have been dead for almost two years. It does not feel as if it has been that long, but at the same time it feels even longer. Looking back, I wish I had spent more time with you, but I did not know how things were going to end up. I regret wasting my time on all of the stupid shit I was doing, and wish that I could have had just one more conversation with you, or came by for a few minutes just to make you laugh. Maybe you've managed to find some humor in the mess of situations I have found myself in recently.
I hope your parents are finding a way to manage, as I know today has to be one of the hardest days for them. People often say that they are praying for you, but I think that your prayers for us down here will be much more beneficial.
I still have not found any sense or reason in your passing. It is constantly in the back of my mind, as you already know. Give me some help if you can, to find a little bit more peace with it. Come to think of it, I could use some help with a lot of things. I don't know how the rules work now or what you can and can't do, but if anyone can do something, I'm pretty sure it's you.
I just wanted to let you know that you are on my mind today. Give my regards to everyone else.
You are loved.
I miss you, man.
|Tags: journal, blog, letter, friend, birthday
|I called you tonight, again. Your voicemail has been engraved into my mind. Almost taunting me, teasing, leaving me to wonder. Will this sort itself out, and we will be able to laugh at my paranoia and excessive worry? I am hoping that the phone will ring in the middle of the night, and it will be you, telling me to shut the fuck up and stop worrying so much.|
I just want to know that you are alright.
I feel like a little kid. A fucking helpless, little kid.
The last time we spoke was now over a week ago. I am sure that most people can go days weeks or months without talking to one another, and there is no problem. We are not most people.
I will give this until Wednesday, and hope that you come around. After that, the search party shall be called off, the phone calls will stop, and I will file your name away somewhere in the "Unsolved" or "Missing" section of my brain. I will begin the forgetting process.
I cannot spend any more of my life sleeping with ghosts.
The sounds over the speakers seem to be particularly sad tonight. I bite my nail, I stare at the wall.
It is an absolutely heartbreaking situation to deal with, when something you care about so much is taken away when you least expect it.
I was not ready for this.
I am not ready for this.
Please come back.
|Tags: journal, blog, helpless, sad, worry, i miss you
|Navigating through the glowing menus of my phone, I find your name, and I dial. There is no ringing. I am immediately directed to the cold, mechanical playback of your voice. I have heard this recording countless times now, telling me to leave a message, and that you will get back to me as soon as possible. You have yet to get back to me.|
I have not spoken to you in nearly a week. This is frightening, as I am used to hearing from you daily. I will not lie, I am scared. I am very scared. This is not like you at all.
Hopefully, you are well, and there is some inconvenient circumstance preventing you from getting in touch. If it's anything other than that, I am not even sure how I would find out. Maybe I never will. The west coast has never felt this far.
I miss you, but I do not know if I should. Have things changed too much? I am sorry. I am sorry.
Laying in bed, I listen to the rain begin to fall. Slowly at first, then growing in intensity, evolving into something furious. A storm has begun. The lightning is magnificent, and the flashes infiltrate my shuttered eyelids. A crushing boom of thunder erupts through the atmosphere.
This is not a moment that should be spent alone. There should be another soul here to appreciate this with me. I need somebody. I have come to grips with my dependency. I need somebody.
It feels as if the past few years have been one, long, rainy day.
Tomorrow's forecast is calling for two inches of snow.
|Tags: journal, blog, rain, storm, lonely, snow, i miss you, scared
|Recently I received a comment on my website, www.bestthingyouneverhad.com, that was of particular interest. Usually, the few comments that I do receive are sympathetic, and they make an attempt to relate to me as a human. This one was interesting, and I'm still not quite sure what I think about it. I believe it is from a girl in Canada, so if that is you, feel free to follow up with me. The comment goes as follows:|
How many girls talk to you because they
a) wanna fix you
b) wanna fuck you
c) actually understand you
the assumption : course they understand you they see you are smart, capable, and just a little broken surely with their glue you will be whole again. whole and theirs like some favourite art project. the one that took them forever but they did it, and now its theirs.
the realistic knowledge: everyone wants to fix you because the main human response to another beautiful articulate human broken is to fix them. your broken and handsome a tragedy waiting for its fairy tale ending. so they will rush you, slowly consume you...wait you out because girls are meticulous and cunning like this. smart, handsome, broken...if they just wait it out and they fix you...it'll work...
as for understanding, only someone thats been in your position with an objective opinion can really understand you. no one can fix you but yourself. and many a people are going to want to fuck you.
my only real comment is said with a certain sigh.... how will you ever find love as a broken boy.
swarmed with all the fakeness you wont see....because your just dying for anything.
First off, I have to say that not many girls talk to me. I get comments occasionally, but the number of females that I communicate with regularly can be counted on one hand.
Point A: Do they want to fix me? Maybe. I am glad that you present the realistic side of the argument. When we find something broken, do we not usually want to repair it? Do we not want it to be as useful and efficient as it was meant to be? Why would people want to let other people remain broken? I do not want to become the science project of some lonely girl, but to say that I want no assistance in my repair would be false. We all need help. Always.
Point B: If there are girls who want to fuck me, they are doing a wonderful job of remaining hidden. Seriously, if you are so inspired by my words and thoughts that you want to have sex with me, let me know. If you meet my approval, I will gladly fly you out to Georgia, and you can have your way with me. Maybe if you are lucky, I will scream out pseudo-poetic phrases, obscure observations, trite lyrics, and statements of self pity while you fuck my brains out. My transformation into a new Bukowski will be that much more complete.
In all honesty, I am fairly certain these girls don't exist.
Point C: As for understanding, you are correct. The only people who can understand are the ones who have been in my position, or currently are. I do not expect my words and expressions to enlighten people. In a sense, I would like them to understand, and I make every attempt to have this happen.
This is a huge part of who I am. This is consuming. If I cannot begin to help somebody at least try to comprehend this experience, then what is the point of any relationship I may have? Why would I want to have anything to do with a person who has no grasp of what being me is truly like? I want that bond. I want that understanding. I do not want my relationships to be a documentary, or some sort of social experiment. I do not want to be part of an exhibit.
A fairy tale ending. A light at the end of the tunnel. A yellow bird. These are things that everyone hopes for, especially people in desperate situations. Everyone wants to be saved. You are lying to yourself if you say otherwise.
Smart, I am. Too smart. Handsome, not necessarily. Broken, absolutely. Girls are indeed cunning. They are heinous creatures, and yet they are wonderful gifts. You know you have found something incredible when you meet one who achieves a balance of ruthlessness and beauty.
Most girls do not want to wait this out. Meticulous, they are at times, but not when it comes to this. I have had numerous relationships fail due to my recent situation, and several others that have failed to evolve, simply because I was not ready for them to turn into more than what they were. They do not have the time to wait this out. They want instant gratification. They cannot handle the amount of selfishness that I currently operate with. I do not expect them to. I am okay with that.
I see the fakeness, make no mistake. I am an amazing judge of character. I no longer waste my time with those who do not deserve it. As for the people wanting to fuck me, well, last I checked there were no ladies at my door. I am not dying for anything. I am dying for something.
You raise an excellent question, my dear. How will a boy as broken as me find love? How will a person so completely fucking shattered find something worth hanging on to?
The truth is, I won't. I know that I won't.
It will find me.
|Tags: journal, comment, blog, sex, life, anxiety, depression, love, Bukowski, understanding