Steal The Stars.

I don't like how this feels. At all.

Someone make it go away. Please?

You Are My Favorite Line In The Worst Song Ever Written.

I don't know what's going on. I don't feel right, at all.

It feels like there's some impending disaster that I have the slightest taste of on the tip of my tongue, and it's causing me to spiral out of emotional control. I just want to forget I exist, forget that everything exists. I want to go away and never come back.

And it doesn't make any sense. There isn't any reason for this, not now. Nothing new has gone wrong, it's all the same old things.

My stomach is upset; I'm really not liking this, at all.



I just wanna forget, I just wanna forget.

When I Sleep I Dream, Dream That I'm Awake. Or Was It, When I'm Awake, I Dream That I'm Asleep?

I had dreams. No, not dreams; fantasies would be a better description.

Thoughts of secret meetings, behind-the-back affections, hush-hush words spoken so low that they weren't really spoken, but instead thought, and taken into account with a glance.

That's where most of this started: eyes.

You have such a deceiving pair. You shouldn't be allowed to use them in the ways that you do; it's criminal.

I remember sitting outside, having that talk that night. And yet still you stand by your original defense. It seems ludicrous to me, that you could POSSIBLY try to defend yourself in that way, when we had a conversation like that. Everything felt so right.

And yet it was all obviously so wrong. Those movements, grazings of the hand, glossed lips and meaningful stares; all of it was so wrong, and I was a fool not to take it for what it was: a blatant lie.

I suppose I thought I could be different; you couldn't possibly do what you'd done to so many others, to me. We'd known each other two long, you cared for me too much to treat me like that.

But again, so obviously wrong.

I wish I could make you forget some of the things I said to you. You didn't and don't deserve to have heard them, to know them. I sang for you, and I don't think you understand just how closley I hold that to my heart in that kind of a situation.

And you never will.

Yet here I am, still writing about you, after all this time. Still going over it in my head, wondering what I did wrong, where I made the mistake, even though I know it was you all along, no matter the mistakes I made, and how fast I moved; it was destined to be this way, all along.

Still writing about you, months after the fact. I hope you feel important.

Baby, I'm An Anarchist.

I want something like that.

Beyond time and death, beyond all normal human boundaries. Unlikely that it will happen though.

There's that feeling again. Like I'm almost touching on something I shouldn't, or that my subconcious doesn't want me to. Yet I try. It's on the tip of my tongue...

Yet so fleeting. And disconcerting.

Tell me your story? I'd love to hear it, in it's entirety. I don't know if I'll ever hear the full version, though. You'll probably always keep it to yourself.

As much as it pains me to hear it, I still yearn to hear every word. It makes me sick to my stomach, to hear what you've been through. But at the same time I find it so interesting and...justifying, in a weird way. To know that I've been there to help, even if it was after the fact.

Sometimes I wonder if anything I type here means anything at all. It feels like its a cover-up to something bigger, some matter my mind isn't willing to let me discuss.

Not that I'd ever really know; if it isn't meant to be discussed, my mind will make sure of that.

So nonsensical. So fitting.

Disjointed. I like that.

Be Blind And Do Not Gaze Into The Void.

I feel like I'm going to vomit. When will you ever learn. On and on and on and on and on and on. Sick to my stomach. Ramble ramble. Ebb and flow. Something doesn't feel right. Stop it. Right now. Guess it's back to us. Only not. Completely different, yet an oh-so-familiar taste in my mouth. I wonder what it feels like. This is meaningless. Not even looking, paying attention. It's useless. Lonely, so lonely. Need that connection, that special thing that only that certain someone can bring. Should probably take that plunge, though I know it isn't going to work. Useless. Worthless ideal. Still upset. Churning, spinning.

I hate feeling like this. I can't even pinpoint what 'this' is; I just know I hate it. It keeps getting worse. Growing, feeding on something. Need a new direction, a new focus, a new something.

Help me?

Scoff. Yeah right. No one knows what to do. I don't even know what to do. Or how to do it. This hurts. I need to stop.

My Lungs Are Fresh And Yours To Keep; Kept Clean And They Will Let You Breathe.

It makes me sick, to think of some of the things you've done in the past. Not because I think any less of you, nor because I've associated myself with you since that point, nor because of things that have occurred between us.

It's just hard to believe that you were ever at such a point in your life.

Sometimes I feel like I might have made a mistake. I get this instinctual, gut-borne feeling that just makes it feel like everything is wrong now.

But if I really stop and analyze, I know that it wasn't a mistake, that we're better off in our current situation, taht I can help you better like this than I could prior.


Too many 'you's, really. Not that there's much else to talk about. Also, I don't find it very appropriate to talk about much else here, other than the things affecting my psyche.

It's slightly strange to see how the way I write here has evolved over the past few months. But I find it soothing.

Though right now I just feel incredibly sick to my stomach. I have no way to take my mind off this. Damn rain. Ruining whatever plans I may have had.

There aren't any soothing or happy thoughts left for me to think. It's pretty disheartening.

I wish. Oh, how I wish.

I will lie awake. Just as I do every other night.

And I'll fall for every empty word (the next) you has to say.

O' God, The Aftermath.

It's always nice when people show their true colors.

I don't need your fucking reminders and forget-me-nots, or your backhanded compliments. I don't need you telling me everythign I already know, everything that's already pounded into my head day after day after day.

What I need is a little fucking support from the people who I thought cared about me.

P.S if you're reading this, it isn't about you.

You hold yourself up so high and fucking mighty over every one else, thinking you have all the fucking answers that everyone else doesn't, thinking you're the coolest, suavest motherfucker in
town, when all it does is make you look fucking foolish.

I thought I was different, in relation to you. But apparently you think of me in the same way you think of everyone else: an inferior, someone who you can trod on and ignore the requests of any time you goddamn please. I'm not going to stand for that shit. You can joke and poke fun and do all your normal little -isms all you want. But it's fuckign bullshit, and you lead an empty life for it.

Fuck you.

How To Lose Yourself In A Week Or Less.

To have someone tell you that they never want to love or be loved again, and to know you're the reason for that...it really hurts.

It feels like a sharp, stabbing pain, right through me, every time I think about it.

There's nothing I can do about this. You know that. I'm grateful for what we had, as difficult as it was at times, for the things I learned, and the ways we both grew and developed from it. But I can't change the way I feel. You can't buy love, you can't sell feelings. In many ways, we did eat each other, and that was the breaking point.

I know you feel lost without me; that you don't want to be alone, and that you don't think you can do this without me there, but I know you can. You're so much stronger than you let yourself believe. If only you could see that.

This week flew by, but sort of slowly glided past as well. Odd.

Time truly was the answer, all along. Patience, even. Just not in the way I thought it would be. Your loss, not mine. It was never my loss, and never will be. Some day you'll see that. Only, probably not.

So foolish, in the ways you act. And other people, as well. I just don't understand human motives, sometimes. But I'm content with that lack of understanding. Some day I'll get it. Or maybe I won't.

Who cares?

I (Will Never) Wanna Be Your Dog (Again).

Please be illiterate.

I don't always understand this agression. But then, at times, like just then, I do. It makes perfect sense.

Your numbers grow thin, while mine...mine grow, in ways I never could have expected. Revenge isn't something I had planned on before, but due to recent events...

It seems like the perfect place.

Maybe it's in my
Pocket.

The look on your face is going to be so bittersweet.

Christ is not a fashion, and neither are you.

Not a fashion. Not a fashion. You are not a fashion. You. Are. Not. A. Fucking. Fashion. I hope to God some day you understand that. But I doubt you ever will. Too caught up in your trinkets, and in your glimmering nothings. Glistening in the sun. Blinding you. But I've got just the pair of sunglasses for this particular glare.

I will not let doubt or uncertainty or guilt or any other feeling infiltrate me. Not this time. This is so beyond that. Nothing can heal this. That lock has been thrown away and replaced with a new one. One you will never even see, let alone possibly hold the ability to unlock.

Disappear. Please. Not into the air, that's too easy.

Meet new people. Hopefully, that'll help solve some of these issues. Always with the distance though, even in current cases. Work around, work over. Overworked.

Always back to you, though. Especially in times like these. You have no real concept of what you've done, and to how many people you've done it to. I hope today made things clear. You have done things that are irreversible and undeniable, no matter how hard you try. Outcast, you are.

But by all means, stay on your high horse, don't acknowledge a thing. Your time will come. And yours. And yours. But especially yours.

Not a fashion. Remember?

But please, stay illiterate.

Quotes, timelines, acts of betrayal. It's almost like a court case. But you're guilty before you're tried, because the blood is so incredibly apparent, all over your body. It's beyond bloodstained hands. It's a bloodstained state of being. And you will never, ever wash that off, in my eyes. It's these new shades I got, you see. They block out anything that could distract me.

Well, not anything...something always slips by. But the important things are blocked, and that's all that matters. I cannot be defeated. Not with the assurance I have, and the friends, TRUE friends by my side. Nothing will stop me. Ever. Again. So help me.

But please, remember. Not a fashion. Never again will I fall misfortune to yours or any other's fashion. I won't let trinkets and baubles and pinstripes and color distract me, ever again. I've always thought fashion didn't matter, but now I know I was only partially right; fashion matters to those who have no depth beyond it.

You'll take all of this literally, but you shouldn't. Or maybe you should. Who knows?

But please, once more.

Stay illiterate.

Remember?