The blood doesn't pool into my veins the right kinda way. I can feel it.
I would have hoped to feel different about it today, but I don't. I need to pretend. I need to lie.
She hates me... why do people put on these charades? I just wish they liked me enough to end it for good. I wish she respected me enough to give me a reason.
I understood the decision, even if it didn't make any sense. She's a person. Respect even in the face of emptiness.
I drive back to my apartment with the same feeling every night. I'm fighting against God and nature. I do not believe the Earth mother wants a beautiful life for me. I believe I was crafted to toil and languish. And every day I strain against her designs, she lifts the flail for another lash.
Let me say what we already know to be true.
A loveless life is not a life at all.
Like a scar of age
And with my failure I accept that I will never be ready for love. And I will never be healed.
I must choose life anyways. I must choose to defend the promise of love, even if I can never have it. I can never become selfish, I can never become hateful.
My love is all I have. With it I create a pressure for the core of my being. With it I create kindness. And with it I remain precious, even as I chip and scratch away into sediment.
For this promise, I will never come to know the pleasure of a Roman Holiday.
In my days and nights I do nothing but *click*. To the next song, to the next station. To let a feeling linger is like a spiritual crucifixion. I guess I let the final nail be my struggle against Gaea. Figures.
The surfing is another manifestation of the same thesis I made so long ago. The vulture comes home once again, what a blessing. On those waves lies the carrion I desire. I can be only what the child within me would have always wished to become.
What could I possibly be? I could only be a pirate.
When he found that rigour was not expected from his people (for he often practised it to appease them), then he would give strangers to understand that it was pure inclination that induced him to a good treatment of them, and not any love or partiality to their persons; "For", says he, "there is none of you but will hang me, I know, whenever you can clinch me within your power."
While I would like to emulate the example of Samuel Bellamy... I find myself drawn towards the image of Captain Roberts.
For this, in my mind, is the truest path for one who lives without love.
Why be hero?
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