I am haunted by exes and their smiles; their kisses that felt wrong even then. Having never known love, I am through wanting to find it, and yet every predatory and passive hunter I know sees a signal I'm not sending. I am adrift in complacence and wish more to be left alone than to be bothered pleasing others. If I am pleased in and of myself, that is enough. How to get that through to the rest of the world seems to be an issue.
It is a few days before another New Year, and there is nothing new to celebrate. the western world remains swathed in gluttony and the artificial demand for more useless things, and in order to even hang on, by the thin slivers of my nails, I am forced to feed that, to push for more hunger for *my* useless things... buy me, buy ME! As if I can do anything better than anyone else, or there weren't already a glut on the market of what little I have to offer.
Only in dreams, only in the manic state just before sleep rings, only there do I have something unique and weighty, some dramatic truth veiled in stories, and the stories are only whispered to me, through me. I have yet to put them down, offer them up some meager sacrifice of mind and eye to whatever reader might see them. I hesitate, here. I always pull back from that brink, and hold my stories inside, safe, but also trapped.
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