8/24/14

I'm so tired of thinking, it's all  lost time that is never found. Therefore without grace, chocked full of sympathetic irony; trying to close the gaps in the past because we are not that yet.  People come and go like faces on subways that i've never been on at 3 am because I live in a new money suburbia full of blonde women and black Suburbans, something I find most fitting to the California stereotype. I've come to find this faux way of life seems to breed an egregious form of human being. Or quite possibly I am bitter, but it seems that those I have felt the closest to, due to the measure of time I have known them for,  really mean nothing at all. 
To put it quite simply, we have known each other for a long time. And that was all. It seems that as I grow older I realize that this rings more and more true. I do not know why humans put some sort of abysmal meaning behind time. There isn't anything incomprehensible that's all it is, days and hours and months, and the past is becoming a fog within me and i'm constantly stuck wandering through it. But who am I to make assumptions on the rest of the world, the part that I have seen for my self is so infinitesimal that for being alive for almost two decades I have yet to live. Which I find slightly disturbing, something I want to let go, but can't quite bring myself to. So I have come to the conclusion that I should love myself, so no one has to. It seems that my presence in most areas are insignificant. Filled with this subconscious effort not to succeed, because I am hellbent on the idea that I do not have much time left. "I hate you, don't leave me alone."  I feel like there's a name for that, some sort of mental disorder that I read about somewhere, anything that you do is now a severe disorder, or extreme character flaw. Nobody has the leisure to die of old age. Everything has a diagnoses. And as I sit in this empty florescent lit library on a Sunday night I start to wonder why this is even relevant, I understand how contradictory it sounds to want nothing but change but fear it with all of your being. The allure of starting over was always too much temptation over me, but now I am here. I am no longer relevant in any of these peoples lives, not that I was before contrary to how I have felt. Suddenly my past is following me, why are decisions made always inedibly the wrong ones one way or another. Why did something I want not want me until I was gone, although that is an entirely different topic completely. The amount I have already wrote about it is painfully pathetic. 
Everyone wants to be loved in one way or another, but why is it that we go to sleep in all of the wrong peoples beds at night. So now I am here, one thousand miles away from my home. And there is still something empty inside of me.  
I cannot fill the cracks.