Oops.

"Oh, this is it," He says, pointing up towards the little radio. "This is that song everyone says they like and I thought I've never heard before. ...I like it."

He admits it sheepishly, as if it were a bit silly for him to enjoy it, or something along those lines. He's holding a chipped coffee mug and drinking it slowly, walking through the empty house while he carries on the conversation. About a nightmare, about quitting smoking, about the irony in being awake this early yet--somehow--late for work. He discusses his problems and advances with the guitar, he flexes and drinks his coffee and looks up at the ceiling and suddenly realizes that he's rather quite alone and he's been having a conversation with himself.

deletemeinthemorning.

Despite better intentions, maybe it's best if it's difficult to understand. There's that same wonder I always come back to: A shuffled deck and not sure what to expect next. You can understand the game, you can understand the tricks, but you'll never, ever, ever understand a random pattern.

You can find this pattern anywhere - from a simple game of cards to the complexity between people's hearts, which gives us the topic that's been burning itself through my brain the last few days. Desperate twitter attempts to capture it while it's raw and prime go off in vain, because every time I think I have it down I find myself at a loss of words. To explain the awkwardness, the misunderstanding, the absolute beauty you can find in something as simple as how two people meet each other.

It's more complicated than a shuffled deck, at least--small slights building up enough to break a relationship to the largest things being shrugged off with a slight smile, you're never quite certain how someone will take something. And sometimes it's neither extreme and you're too worried about failure to actually embrace the time you have. Walking on eggshells for the smallest things, just in case.

Just in case.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. It's 1 in the morning and I've been up for almost 24 hours straight now. Two packs of cigarettes, malls, guitaring, and god knows what else separates me from my last bit of dreaming, and I'm so desperate to just write it down without saying it directly. So ready to say it without saying it. Too afraid to just type it out. Or admit it. Or deal with it.

It's a question of social taboo and affection and all those horrible things that keep you from saying what you want to say. The box you put yourself in. The letter stitched to your chest.

It's so much easier to play the fool.

I'll try to make sense of this later. All I know is I feel sick to my stomach without really having a reason to. Wishing I was anywhere but my own bed--the bodies filling it are the ones I want to be there...and it's making me realize that's the opposite of what I want. Or need.

It's so frustrating. Angst, angst, angst, angst.

This'll be deleted eventually. Sorry for the ranting. I guess.

This is just the only place where no one else will read it.

This isn't right. This isn't proper. This isn't cool.

This is the sort of thing that breaks it all.

I'm just waiting for it to break. Linebreak, sentence, linebreak, sentence. I fail at formatting and typing like a proper gentleman. Hell, I fail at almost all the stops when it comes to being a proper gentleman, hahah. But that's always suited me just fine--and here I am regretting it. Not regretting a lifestyle choice, not regretting a bad habit, not regretting the way I handled things. Regretting the man I am, the people I've met, the places I've been. Regretting myself down to the very core. Hating myself for how I've handled everything up to this point, hating that I can't change it all just by wanting to. Hating myself completely for the very same things that people love themselves for. I don't want my box to be the box I put myself in--I would like to be in a different box. A different place. A different time. Anything that could change I need ot have changed because now I can't even explain why it is the way I am or how it is the way things are or even why I've mae it this way. But here I am, living my life, and it's a failure of one. I'm not proud of the things I do, I'm not skilled at the things I do, but I do them because that's what I've made for myself. I realize that I'm at the bottom of human existance simply because I'm not fond of myself. People tell you

you can't love others until you love yourself

And I'm skipping out on that all important aspect of ego: Pride. I have none. No pride in my hobbies, my abilities, my talents, my experiences, my accomplishments. They're dull and undefined already and looking at them down seems to make them stretch so far away they don't even matter. As if I could pluck myself from this Earth riht now and there wouldn't be a hole left. As if I were to be unmissed and unloved for this moment in time. For the simple reason that I am who I am, I'd rather be gone from everything rather than look at myself.

For, objectively, I'm the type of person I hate. So much self-loathing here not for attention because I'm my only reader. Self-loathing here not for style because that's anything but what matters. Honest, pure, straight-forward self-loathing. And all in all I'm not really that horrible of a person. I'm just not what I should be, not what I want to be, not what I thought I was. Instead I'm just...

You shuffle the cards and get a shit hand. It happens. But you can fold out. You can walk away. In real life, though, I've delt my OWN cards along with the ones the deck gave me. and my hand is horrible and I've done nothing to improve it. I've made good plays for other people's hands, sure--but for my own hand, I've dug myself so deep into a hole that the game isn't even worth finshing.

But there's no way to walk away from the table, is there?

"So," muttered cynically with a bad taste in my mouth, "This is love."