Loneliness of the long distance writer.

Its a week.

Sometimes I think to myself that it is going by really fast. Sometimes it feels like it is dragging on for fucking ever.

It is just a week.

I want it to be over to fall in her arms again.

But there is more to this. More to this ache, like a warren of hidden animals, it brings out other things that frighten me. I unfocus my eyes and pour down another pint. I will myself to think of other things.

I text Ja., "Is it strange that I want to be old?"

Mild conversation that makes me think, and makes me long for the idea to become reality. Wouldn't it be easier to flash forward. Get past all the pain and all the anguish, so that you could look back at your life and remember all the good times. Look back and hopefully realize that it was all worth it.

I can't imagine what is in store for me at this point.

I can see a future that is less than bright. But the end of it all is beautiful.

If I told you, you would think me mad.

So I won't. Not even here.

And I keep writing, always writing, to no end from what I can tell. Putting words down on paper, or typing them into a computer. Like some kind of race that I know I will eventually win, if only I could figure out what a victory looked like. If only I knew what I was supposed to do with all of these words.

They are good for wooing, for exciting, for tormenting, apparently when put to music they will get stuck in your head. But really what are they all worth. I just don't know sometimes. But I can't seem to give them up. I can't seem to leave them be. They are the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes. And this is one of those times.

Gentle reader. Thank you for bearing with me.

I will have better words for you next time.

File under vice.