(mostly unedited from my journal)
Why am I up at 3:13 am when I know I will be woken up at nine? Why won't I cut ties with the memories that haunt my thoughts so I can sleep? I've been ready to give my life over to something or someone else three times. The first: I fucked up. The second: I wanted to love her but she just used me for comfort instead, ditching me when inconvenient. The third is my love for writing. I've sacrificed everything for this craft and passion.
But here I am, writing words in a journal just before a New Year when everything is good but still, something is missing.
I'm not sure what it is, so I draw my pen further along each line on the page, left to right -- racing -- for the period that will bring a necessary pause in thought so I can think about something else inane to say.
I guess all I have to say is this: If you have something you love, claim it; hold it against your heart and feel it pulse against you. Don't be like me and hold the real truth and real emotions inside. You've got to fight for love; it digs in its heels when pushed. No one can erase what is real.
Anyone who says otherwise preaches obfuscation and wants you to burn.
