I used to hsve love, several loves hsve come and gone, but few ever stay long enough to see my depths. I'm shy, well, reserved, and a big unhinged, but only when I'm in doubt of my place in the world. My loves have always been somber, they've been there when I most needed them,and I fret to imagine I wasn't there enough for them in-return. Now I'm alone, and remorseful to those I've lost, but I've done no harm, just lost myself in a disarray of bad memories, and rose-tinted glasses.
Love used to be what I've seeked the most,now it's the written word, script torn out, ripped asunder from makeshift notebooks, and drizzled lightly like carmalized magic on pages digitized. My love is the reclusive nature of writing, and for eons, or so it seems; I've drowned in lily ponds of prose and allegorical rhyme. I've gained so much admiration for those I've sought to love, thwt I tend to think if humanity is even as attractive as it once was to my blossoming manhood. Now, I've grown more interested in the mind, the objects that allow me to release onto the pages thoughts of obscurity, profanity, and resolve. Thoughts whose treacle amplitude far covers the globe in fiber optic fireflies; raging against the currents of the cable wires
Whereas most of my loves have died off, leaving me feeling like a lone wolf garbled by the disgusting figure I've become,nestled in the bosom of Medusa herself, a stone-faced gremlin onto the world, I sit, a miser to the cloth of disdain,typing away endless rants of useless facts, and misguided information. I'm human,mbut not verily so by my cowered brow, my hideous dimorphised angles, that bulge from out of fat, and busily pimples that grow cancerous with warty brown hues. I'm nothing less than a monster,man objectum sexual that couldn't court an empty remote control. My ogre-like appearance however,mallows me to stay focused on the writing which needs to be finished, it implements facts and figures into my typing,allowing me to accomplish feats unfounded, however the monstrous task at hands seems improbable. Yet, I'm still lonely,,and hate myself for being so, becaue alas; I'm still human.
Humanity reeks of lost causes, defined by the lackluster longing for another human being to complete their sorry soul. Me, well I never thought much past my own needs, never once mastered the loving affection I was undoubtly supposed to give to the rest of the world. I've grown odious over the past several years, platitudes towards past loves as research data for new loves has proven that I'm much less a romantic, and more a theorist. Still, the humanity, the little left in me ories and pulls at the proverbial heart strings, just for a chance again to find someone that makes me crazy for them, and they for me. But....what price to pay for such insanity?
I've never found a love that was everlasting, I do but such a thing exists, is it all not but a compound structure that percolates in the brain? Is it not just a mess we have to clean, like a rainy day parade, bellowing forth through the clouds,the thunder, and the tumultuous downpour? I will die alone, that is conceivable, and yet, I don't quite mind the sting of such a realization, as it even comes to pass. No, I will own whatever dreadfulness I can, and be marveled by my own history, as it plays out on the grandest stage of the over active, and always faulty memory.
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