Strings

     Is it to much to ask for to be loved? Is it too much to ask for to be loved tenderly? simply? Must love be so complex? Is it too much to be loved with no strings attached? An uncomplex love? comprised of soft touches and warm moments? characterized by how easy it is too feel? to see? How does one know when love is love? How does one know when love is True. we are taught from a very young age that true love exists. It's a real thing. What qualifies love as true? Is it enough to just love? Must you declare it? "This is true love!" but if it were, would you even need to? Perhaps true love is detected by a 6th sense made just to identify The One. Perhaps True love means nothing. Perhaps it is just a chemical reaction that drives us to procreate. "You must carry on" shouts our species, so loud it echoes into chemicals that drive us to seek out The One. The Mate. The optimal partner. Is that true love? A genetic line-up that creates the ideal matching of your own and your counterpart's genes? That can't be

    Love is a pseudoscience. Perhaps the most powerful. Maybe that's why I just can't seem to get it. I just don't understand. Perhaps I'm the problem. Maybe I'm unloveable. 

No that's not it, because I am loved. I know this to be true. So what's the hold-up? The gears in my brain are gummed up. A programming glitch. a missing frame, an unknown variable, a goddamned missing metaphor that can't possibly portray how I think. How I feel. I'm stuck. I know I'm stuck. I'm trapped. I dug myself a grave 6 feet deep, looked up, and said 

"FUCK ME

 I'm in a grave six feet deep!" Why who could have done this! The shovel still in my hands I have a choice,

keep                                                                  out

         Digging                                Digging  

                           Down, or Start

no test I could run, no spell i can cast, no wish I can wish. True love is trust. Trust that I wont leave you and you won't leave me and we will be happy. It's that simple. What makes it complex?

Fear, paranoia, distrust. Does it start with me? Do I trust? I feel like I do, I definitely trust more than I used to. But is that enough? Maybe I need to do more. What more can I do? What am I doing wrong?

Perhaps I'm not destined for love. Perhaps my life is one filled with friends and that's that. No growing old with someone. Just an empty cottage on a hill filled with cats and loneliness. A fate I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemies, even rats have other rats! Perhaps this is my fate. My hell on earth. Myself. Tortured by the fact that I'm so damn insufferable nobody wants to stick around. Maybe it even makes sense. Maybe.

Well destiny can go fuck itself. I wont. I wont succumb to loneliness. I'll find love. I'll figure love out. The missing variable, the gummed up gears, the skipping frame, the glitch in the system, the metaphor that finally describes how I feel. Perhaps it's not a metaphor, or a glitch or a skipped frame or gummed up gears. Perhaps it just is. Love is made to be indescribable until you truly know it. Thats True love. When you have the examples. The field research, the ability to say "I know this to be true because I felt it!" Haven't I felt it? Why does it feel like it's been so long. Can I even remember? I'm too in my head I'm too in my head, I can hear it already

"Love just is you fool! Get out of your head!"

As if it's that fucking easy. I live here idiot. It's my own damn head! Where am I to go, the grocery store? Oh let me leave my head here by the door so I can just pick it up on the way back in and return to the solitude of my own skull. Sorry, my fucking bad. I know I'm too in my head, but how does one escape their own mind? I'm quite literally boxed in. To simply ignore it is not enough. You cannot ignore the walls of a prison cell, or the bars, and who's waiting for you on the otherside.

On the other side, who is waiting for me? is that a selfish thought? perhaps. Is it wrong to be selfish sometimes? The world will tell you selfishness is evil. ego, satan, demons, djinn, what have you. But what if no one else is looking out for you? Who is looking out for me? I know I have people I can rely on, people who love me. But who is Looking Out For Me. Who wants what's best for me. do I even want that? Sometimes it feels like all people want to do is suck you dry. use you. pick you up, spin you round, and lay you down wet. Discarded, assaulted, violated. Nothing but a tool to make themselves feel better. Surely not everyone I think is using me actually is. Perhaps they just are bad at communicating. Maybe I am too, maybe that's the true problem. Communication. Thats a doozy isn't it. It's the most important thing we can do ever and yet

People don't do it like I do. I don't communicate normally. The thoughts in my head come out like word vomit onto pages and sound like broken pianos in the air. Stutters, aphasias, misunderstandings. Tone, tempo, beat, rhythm, word pronunciation. Sounds that sound so similar, so simple, and yet complex all at the same time. Double meanings, truths. Lies. I love yous. I hate yous. All of the feelings that are lost in between. You hurt me, I'm sorry, you're crying, I'm angry. We're jealous, I'm ill. I feel like throwing up. Things we say we don't mean, things we don't say we wish we could have. Dialects, slang, childhood. There's so much to keep track of. Why can't I just scream and people get it. Why can't I open my mouth and speak eloquently. Why can't my mouth keep up with my brain, why can't my brain slow to a manageable speed. Why can't I carry around a clipboard and write everything down (I could but people would never be able to read it). Perhaps I should type everything into google translate. Never speak again. Allow my voice to be a distant memory replaced with the robot readings straight out of the shittiest dystopian fiction on the market. Maybe then I'll be able to love. Maybe then I'll stop making the same mistakes. maybe just maybe I'd be able to have a night's rest uninterrupted by dreams, sleep paralysis, wakings. Maybe then I'd rest easy knowing for certain, I am loved. Is that what it takes? My eternal silence? Who fucking knows. Maybe I'm just horny, maybe everyone's right and I'm too up in my head. Maybe my destiny is to die alone surrounded by friends who love me. Maybe I'm not to know what my destiny is. Maybe a question mark is all I need for now. The mystery. The possibility to love. Maybe I control that destiny. 

If that's true, how come I'm lost?

I may be behind the wheel but there's a gun to my head and a hostage in the back seat. Keep driving, The doors are locked. Whats the point of crashing, we're all dead already anyways. Just keep driving. Don't look behind you. the gun presses to the back of my head. Just. Keep. Driving. I'm playing chicken in a ford pinto against a jet engine. Don't go too fast, the gun warns, but if you slow down we're all dead. Jet after jet flies overhead and each one makes my nightmares more and more real. 

The doors aren't locked, The gun to my head isn't loaded. But the hostage is real.

And I don't know what to do.

none of this makes sense

but how I feel doesn't either.

The song of the week is Wash It All Away by San Cisco