Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fuck it, I'm hitting done. I am too old to not know better. I know I should take care of myself. So this hurt. I don't know how to fix, or if I can, or even should. And I'm too old to wait, to hold on to empty hope. And too old to hear back ground noises and enforce my importance on an otherwise happy time. The fact will always remain I'm later, an apology will never be enough in and of itself without a reason behind it, and you cannot continue to call yourself an asshole as an excuse for how this works. So, yes. In this instant I want out. I want to be left alone in quiet, to not feel guilty for needing, to not feel shame for the guilt of needing. In this instant I wish I had said no. I wish I had picked a nights sleep without the panic of answering the phone at what ever hour. I wish I had picked to be miserable tomorrow. I'm not angry. I'm disappointed. As you see things repeating, so do I. This pattern of waiting around for someone has worn grooves into me that would take decades to smooth over. Because it's always something. I could stoop to naming what you've done in the last 3 weeks, because that's as far as I can remember, but I've put the gun away. Each issue that eats at me is a symptom of feeling unimportant, is a reflection of later. The truth is I'm afraid of falling asleep without hearing your voice, because the dreams come then, and I don't like them. But you should know I'm thinking about it. While I feel I'm sane, and in control of myself. While I still feel my feet on carpet as old as I am, I'm thinking about it. So, dear God, don't call me and say you're sorry. I'm so sick of that word. 8:22 p.m. - 2003-03-27 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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