Lovely Bloodflow

I can't help but wonder what the actual biological response of a heartwrench is. Is it perhaps a sudden flow of blood? That's what I'm inclined towards. A small length of fishing wire that fastens itself to a bit of your soul, and on nights like these, when difficult conversations are had with ones that you love, it tugs, enough to hurt, but not to break. I feel at the mercy of such a small thing: weak, childish, and incapable. I must look like a damned fool, floundering across the street, unkindly guided by an invisible thread wrapped viciously around the most intimate depths of me.

Cynicism is like the sun. It might be light, but too much time spent in it, and everything gets tough and burned. All the moisture is gone, too. A dose is necessary for things to grow and thrive, but too much and everything dies. There wasn't much left that makes me cry anymore...but...

Hm. I was beginning to wonder if I'd forgotten how to cry. Doctor, my eyes.

I wish that I were more aware. I wish that I could think without talking, without verbalizing.

Honestly, I think it just comes down to wishing I were less broken. I'd love a god who could do something with that.

By the way, everyone, don't fall into the same trap that I fell into. There are things in this world that cannot be answered or fixed. Logic cannot fix them, and therapy cannot fix them. People are broken, and humanity is flawed.

I think at the root of my soul I am aware that I am entirely unaware. As such an introspective, verbal, communicative person, it's amazing what I cannot see, cannot say, and will not communicate. I am a proud joke, an idiot who fancies himself academic, the very fool that returns again and again to his vomit. I keep thinking if I can learn about myself, realize my behavioral patterns, I can change them. I just have so much trouble knowing. The greeks had at least something right. Before attempting to know anything, to know anyone...know thyself.





In response to what I have felt tonight, I feel it necessary to begin a journal of some sort. I don't think I can stick with something regimented very well, but there has to be something I can do. I am tired of my misunderstanding of myself resulting in foolish, foolish decisions. This isn't just about me. Things are hurting. There is more than one fishing line in a soul. There is a web of gentle pain, of kindness that aches, and of lovely bloodflows everywhere. Its the least I can do to try to be responsible with whose fishing line I am allowed to hold.