If you’re lucky you might have a chance at real happiness.
I’m not talking about love, you’re going to love. There’s so much love in this life you won’t know what to do with it all… And that’s a problem.
You’re going to love people that are bad for you, or you for them. You’ll love people you can’t have, sometimes people you can never meet.
You’ll love as much as you allow yourself to love.
But this life comes with rules. Conditions. So what you see isn’t always what you get, and in fact you may never get what you need if you only chase what you love.
I’m tired. I’ve been working for everything I don’t care about for so long that I can’t remember feeling anything,
feeling anything except tired.
I remember screaming at the night sky, Matt, cursing God and begging Him to let me trade with you. I always wanted to go, you never knew you would. It seemed a bit unfair.
I felt, that night. I felt so much, so hard, so deeply.
I haven’t felt that completely since that night. That’s my greatest sin, the tragedy behind my truth,
my one committed deception.
I can write about anything, because I can’t feel it. I can give anything that’s needed, because nothing gets behind my walls. I can sacrifice everything because I don’t matter to me. My love is only bone-deep. My fear is imaginary. My pain is the only thing that’s real, and it’s deeper than the Mariana Trench, it’s too big to feel, to carry,
I’m so fucking tired.
I’ve been thinking about dying, lately, my whole life.
I’ve been thinking about how easy it would be,
I wonder what feelings would follow me, would I know anything at all, would I cease to exist?
What a blessing that would be.
My only fear of death is that I would continue, somehow trapped in this person, still full of sorrow, still carrying mountains of regret.
I’ve been fighting myself lately, all of the time. I’ve been a delivery guy my entire adult life and I carry things, useless things, important-to-other-people things,
I can deliver a package, I’ll make your box move, I’m here to bring you what you need, other immature innuendo.
I can write a poem, I can write some lines and once in a while I write something far too lengthy, knowing that most people won’t read it,
I am a collection of vitally important useless skills.
What I do matters,
Just not to me.