Like maybe it needs to become apparent that I've determined what I'm trying to say...

… before anything will become worth reading, or hearing, or anything like that.

But I know. I mean, I really think I do, naturally. I know what I'm trying to say.

But, how do I say it well?

Am I beating around the bush?


What is life?
Is my wondering merely escapism?


So many things it could be…

I could be the bad guy. I could be the crazy homeless person begging for change to go buy drugs. That could be the state of my internal affairs. I'm driven to figure it out, because I want to be the good guy. But sometimes I just wanna throw in the towel and accept that I'm probably less than great.

I'm driven around in circles.. but then I get back to wondering what I'm worth without a second opinion. I've got myself. I've had myself for all my life. But it doesn't make me happy. I want someone else. I want someone else inside here, in this corner, in my thoughts. I want to open up and be loved and accepted. But, to open up, does not necessarily entail being loved nor accepted. BUT—
in which possible scenario might it be possible— in which possible scenario might it be probable— in which possible scenario might it be a definite FACT… oh, dear lord.

So I found a possible scenario, where I thought the chances might be decent, and I proceeded into it as best I could.
I can't know the facts until I enter the realm of real people.
I mean enter into the realm of real people, with my real self.
A self, as convoluted and ridiculous as anything or anyone ever really was.

Perhaps, to open myself up for acceptance, and for scorn.
To lay myself out on the concrete, to be either hated or loved…

Maybe just for a moment, and then to beat a hasty retreat?
Maybe for a little while, and then to be hated so much that I'm murdered?
And then maybe, just maybe, if I lie there just long enough, though I'm hated by some large number, I will be loved by a precious few…
and these few might stand up for me and defend me from the murderous many.

Where am I? in thought… where in thought?
And how can I get to the center, or, to the part or thing that really matters…
and, can I really ever anyway?

I must believe that I can. I must, or I've no reason to be, I'm not worth anything.
It IS a strange existence. It's a strange life. And it seems the wondering never ends, or is unending, because there are so many different ways to say a thing, and to view a thing… and which one is best? And which one matters? Do any of them matter?
What matters to me? It's so simple. It's the simplest thing.
"To love and to be loved"

But although it is simple, it is so very hard to realise.
Because it was born in a make believe world.
How can it ever grow into a living creature, in this world, this world I enter by beginning to write?
[and by opening my eyes, awakening from this dream, as it were, and saying things and befriending people and making plans to go get coffee]


Requires concerted effort. Directional thought. Purposeful words. Things that don't come easy.
Don't suppose anything good ever came easy. Or, so I've been told.

And so, I suppose, ends this current stream of thought, this current attempt at living: for now, incomplete, insufficient perhaps, but an effort all the same.