When I'm sad, I'm scared of never being happy again.
When I'm happy, I'm scared of always being sad again.
I can't win.

I'm throwing out a lot of words and pick me ups I used to say to you, I'm rearranging all the lines you used to use. I'm decorating for a new season of revenge 'cause a heart never broken is a secret giving in. So that's it, I'm giving in.

That's it, I'm giving in.

The Longest Day of the Year

We smoked Black clover cigars and pot while a few of us read aloud lines and passages of Whitman, while the remaining few of us sat and listened. We were puffing sugar sweetened poetic looking smoke clouds from our pipes, through our eyes.
It was midnight on an insignificant Monday night, or Tuesday morning rather. Insignificant, except for that particular night we had begun with poetry, verse, and smoke had been the very same night as the one belonging to the very longest day of the year.
It was both peculiar and nice that the longest day of the three hundred sixty five day calendar year should also claim its brilliancy and renown in that it too also provided for the most beautiful night.

Any way, that same night, after we were lifted and high off of our drugs of choice, (unanimously: poetry and pot), it was then a single file line that the five of us formed as we all traveled silently though swiftly towards the destination. All the while, a mass attempt at a hushed laughter. Our minds, youthful, untainted, and influenced.
Quietly then, we snuck inside the beautiful house. We each chose a spot to sit and sing. We watched a movie then, in the dark of the house, in the dark of the night, at an hour more than midnight. And we watched this movie on a whim, this wonderful film which conveyed precisely the articulated version of an enlightenment. My enlightenment. Now everyone elses, for this film had been made decades before that night we watched it. I didn't feel selfish, I felt involved. I felt excited that an articulation of such has now been spread to four more minds (being that one of us had already seen it).

(Inconcievable.)

The movie ended almost perfectly in it's promptness as he said it would. And then again, in hushed movements we all left the interior of that lovely home and went again to our earlier congregation spot outside. It was now nearly three and instead of heading home then as I might have ought to, of course I found it much more pleasurable and beneficial to the self to stay and indulge with the others the contents of one of the most fantastic films we had all just finished watching together.

That day I had a cup of tea, cheese and bread, and another cup of tea. Soothed and enthused goes the feeling of my heart beat; dancing around, beating, burning, bumping to and fro off the cells in my brain. My youthful, untainted, influenced brain. Who knew a little sugar, vanilla, and chamomile could ultimately create such a sensation?

But, a sensation of what, exactly? It wasn't the night of, it was the early morning after the longest day of the year that got me so involved.

People pay me in pity money. But I hate to spend it. I almost never spend it. I'm just, bad at spending it. Does that make me even more pitiful?


"And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
and then from hour to hour we rot and rot." As You Like It II~7 William Shakespeare

My preferred method of escape: flight.

Last night, I came home sick. I felt ordinary. I felt sick. Indulged in an uncomfortable slumber. By the twelfth hour, I couldn't take it anymore. That which we call "sleep". Ordinarily, I would feel secure in the safety which sleep provides. The excuse to dismiss yourself from the ordinary world. The planet Earth which we surmise to be our true existences. Yeah, right. In my dreams, I can kiss you away. Or kiss you back. I can brush my hair until you start to fall out of my curls. Sometimes, I can look into a mirror and see you. My reflection in you. What is a worldly existence, any way? That question means nothing to me. In my dreams, I am good at flying. The entire time I spend escaping consequence, both fair and undeserved... My preferred method of escape: flight. Some times I can time travel too. And by that, I mean, I can die. Usually, I am mindlessly convinced that death which is bestowed upon me is a final figure in a chain of events. Now, I am convinced it is an agreement. Death, an agreement. An agreement, a discovery. Death is only the beginning. I used to be so afraid to die. Now that's all I can think about.


The distance should weaken our voices, though strengthen our meanings. Though I'm not sure what effect the guilt or the indifference will have. You're making this really hard. But I'll take all the blame. Out of habit. Habitually that is, I am allowed the ability to forget your scent, your tone, your skin's hue. You've turned this whole love riot into a habitual ritual. I love, I die, I love, I die, I love, I die, I love, I give up. It's funny. How I don't find you funny anymore. I used to laugh out of bliss. Now my laugh is tainted with satisfaction. Is that what you wanted? Your leaving a thousand miles away and still satisfaction resonates in my bout of laughter? This is, exactly the final outcome we have worked for our entire six year quest. A laugh of satisfaction? You told me you hate that. Now I love it.