I’ve had a lot of “lasts” recently.
Last classes, last concerts, last school lunches, last days of the week in school.
And while I haven’t had my last last, too many last minute projects and a test, I keep pointing out every last that I’ve been in.
I almost feel like the opposite of every person online in that I want to scrawl “LAST” across the buildings and the walls. In the minds of those around me, etched into their thoughts, I want them to know that this is the end for me so look what I’ve done and appreciate me leaving.
But then I find myself reminding me that it’s not the last that matters as much as all the times before that. The strong memories, the long hours, and the everything already committed to everything that came before.
So bring on the nostalgia but by God we’ve had some good times.
Here’s to the last day.
To the last day, I’ll remain at my post, in silent vigil either against some well-known foe or for the dawn to return as I remember it. These mountain passes have been my keep, and to the tops of their peaks I am in a valley without border of rock and stone so much as mind. So it is, my mind is dulled ‘gainst the whet stone it’s known too well. Haply, the stone was dull itself, or that I had perceived a dulled stone and in turn received such. No matter, for I’ve made my way far enough to remember that it was never so much a feat of distance as it was one of self.
Of course, that’s all rubbish as well. With the end of these school days, I am faced with all the ends of ropes I tied or let hang loose.
‘Was it really worth it?’
I guess I’ll never know.
That’s the part that gets me - these past four years have had their own share of fist-bearing, teeth-clenching, and eventual collapsing. At some time, I’ll not recall any but the great and terrible things that sting against the heart. What of those restless, endless nights? The echoes of noiseless creaking through your skull? When you felt broken? Granted, you still are for the most part - but there’s a certain thing about youth that makes things seem closer than they ever were.
Again, what am I talking about? I haven’t a clue.
I came across some pretty folk and made a few memories for some to keep. What else is there for a simple man to want?
O, the want of complexity in cognition and life and limb! Those things that make still blood still young again, that hold fast hearts slowed. That I met those who knew me by any other name, I know myself a villain - a villain of want.
Yet, despite this illness of want and poison of greed, I am in want again for the company of friends I’ve made those days of beginnings.
How do you say goodbye
a hug and a smile
a laugh and a tear
a kiss on the forehead
a wave of the air
write a poem
sing a song
dance like you’ve never danced before
I know I haven’t quite reached the end but I’m hanging in there. To those I’ll never see again; we’ve had our ups and downs, maybe I enjoyed your presence maybe I didn’t. Whatever my opinions, strive to be better, because that’s one of the best thing life can offer; the chance to improve yourself with every passing moment.
I haven’t made a good decision in a long while, and today isn’t the exception. Let me be clear when I ask myself “what the fuck have you done?”. And, as always, I am confused from the question and left numb and without words.
If you can pronounce correctly every word in this poem, you will be speaking English better than 90% of the native English speakers in the world.
After trying the verses, a Frenchman said he’d prefer six months of hard labour to reading six lines aloud.
I love this thing its brilliant. Even if its your mother tongue, read it aloud anyway it’s worth it I promise.
that was beautiful and fun to read aloud
In order to rid myself of the o’erhanging reminder of the shift I’ll soon have to write in my life, I want to get my house sorted. I dislike accepting new things into my life unless I can help it, which is to say that I want to prepare myself before such things come, as to see how it will affect me. I’m cleaning house, making shiny all the ugly bits and pieces in order to feel better about myself. It’s all a matter to me, and I’m wasting time writing. We’ll see how the last few weeks go. I certainly hope the best for myself and my friends.
You’ll have to understand - I am happy for you. I, sitting here alone, can think on and on and still see you as no one else but a good friend. Perhaps a bit flawed at times, but so is everyone else in their own way. I’ve come across from my wayward ways and far off days as something I never intended to be, and if that makes a villain out of me - well, I always wanted to wear myself out of my own skin. I cannot help but be confrontational or choleric at times. But, you are a good thing in my life, and soon I’ll have to refer to you in the past tense. I’ve no one particular in mind as I’m writing this - just all of you who’ve been there for me. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, and I’m sorry for having been the basterd I was at times. Now, as always, goodbyes will come and then everything will restart anew, if not slightly tattered or frayed at the edges.
In the years that followed, his regret lessened, bitter seas subsided with the tides, and he had finally forgotten the pleasure a pair of finer eyes had darted i’ the heart. But, the emptiness remained as an imprint of memory, apathetic towards all passions but want. He acted as hollow as he imagined himself to be; without substance or meaning, other than existence begetting existence. What is it that he wants? To be re-assured? To fit in to that ‘perfect space’? I couldn’t say; I am but a little thought to him, though always here.
I just want to not feel the ways that I feel, and gain more feeling in the bits of me that need it. I am nothing short of thankful to my friends, but I cannot call myself that to you. I’m not much of anything right now, to myself and all looking o’er my way. I want to curl up in a ball for a while, and to have you guys there for a bit, just so I might feel a bit a part of.
I don’t understand; I never have, and fear I never will.
Take care, little cub.
Tread lightly paws about nimble hoof,
Once meant to chase after, now alongside.
Still do you remember bygone days as years past,
To snipe and scrape against kin
Who offered help by din
Against innocence, turned ignorance.
Here, no elephant bores grave,
No constant, rippling anger
Against troubled youth or bitter resolve.
Not so haughty as haunting
As echoes are to mountains:
Of little occurrence or matter to Gods,
The manners of men and lions.
Here, there be lambs of kinds
Once holy, now lonely to us -
Or that it makes me.
To forget would mean to have once known well enough, and I can’t see whatever you’ve found in me. Maybe it was one of those lies I’ve told that got you thinking - I’m a compulsive liar; I’ll say I’m working on it, but that’s not me, that’s not the kind of person I’ve led you and me to believe. I figure I can’t help the way I am, going into circular logics in my head. I’ve seen my worser days far out number the better ones, and I’m certain that they’re all stacked against me.
I sometimes say too much or not enough. I can’t call myself a friend to a friend. Crowded spaces - even those with familiar faces - still leave me silent and awkward. I know the best and worst parts of me, but I do nothing to change one for the other - two parts bad and one part lie (just to make the drink go down quicker than you realize). I can’t find the words to express myself to you, or anyone really. I remain an enigma to myself. I’m asinine and often flippant - bitter and mean being two things a part of me. Regretful? Most definitely; but never enough to pull myself out of the sand, vine in hand. These hands that clench fists aren’t meant for weaving story baskets or holding anything close and near to me - unless it be by the neck of the bottle or the end of a pen. I still can’t find out how to hold my hands when I’m closed in myself, opened to the slightest brush of wind or voice that might bring me to my knees in either submission or prayer - though what’s the difference at all to two too sinful palms together?
I wouldn’t know my worth until I’m bargained and spent - likely by friends, though what ever was in it for them? Let me know how a friend’s supposed to be, and I’ll be it! I don’t know the meaning of the word, or the feeling behind the passion I so desperately cling onto and derive from my friends. What quality a person is this that knows no taste but bitterness and gall? What wonders do I give? That I am a drunken sailor and you are Miranda, cast away upon the distant shores of a brave, new world?
You’ll have to forgive me, there must be truth in your statement - I am so desperately hoping for it. But, I’ve been down here for many a year, lost in a construct of the mind to the matter of none but myself. I would kindly wish for your great escape, that warm embrace, and to know safety and closure and the beginning of new. But, there are some things that remain stagnant. Sometimes, I find myself playing both Theseus and Minotaur, man and beast.
It’s twelve o’clock in the morning on a Friday night. The days were faster than the little drops of alcohol that I let tempt me into restless waking, though arguably I was never one for rest. Or maybe the beads of sweat that flushed my face, laborious in their heated campaign to cool my similarly temperate surface. I couldn’t say what we were working towards that night. I was told there was meaning in this, that the friends I’ve made would somehow be beneficial to me, and perhaps I’ve never swallowed the uncomfortable idea of it. I reject such treatments as the cancer I had claimed to always be. Conditioning the mind to mediocrity has bred my contemptible personality and self-loathing manners.
They ran through the streets for what seemed like hours. Jack went to look in his backyard to see if she sneaked to the base without them knowing it. Sam went up and down the street, her dad’s flashlight illuminating the emptiness of Gladys Street. We’re gonna be in so much trouble, she thought, clutching the peppermints in her pocket, watching the bobbing of the light match that of her gait. Why does she have to ruin everything?
“Clara! Clara! Come out now, we’re done playing!”
There was no echo of her voice through the spaces between houses. Clara’s name escaped her lips and disappeared into the distance before the silence covered its trace. Sam listened closely, but her footsteps and the birds and crickets and wind and cars and breathing kept her from finding Clara.
All right, so I wouldn’t say I am an educated man, in terms of the feminist movement. I’m very simple in both mind and practice, in fact. But, on this day had I been tested to such an extent that I could not believe that such ignorance in a person was in proximity to my social circles.
That we were talking on prom stuffs, the boy said to me ‘it isn’t worth it to go to prom alone.’ To some extent, I agreed with him. Would I want to ask a nice person to go to prom with me? Yeah. But the matter is the going, and I was comfortable with how I was going, so I didn’t want to go in circles about the subject.
The reason I hold a sort of animosity towards this dishonorable boy was simply for his views on women. For all the words in me, I cannot detail the nuances of his perspective - my mind tends to fog up when my spirit is tempered to hotly fumes. But, in the base of it was:
1. He considers himself a ‘gentleman’ by the definition of ‘I pay for the girl every time,’ as if what constitutes the mark of Man is simply the size of his pocketbook. This started in reference to prom, but then pushed further into all situations. As well, he debased me with the fact that I’ll not pay for a date’s prom ticket unless I’ve inconvenienced her in some way (more specifically, that she had haply gone to another school and still agreed to attend my prom). I’m not one for taking such
2. He believed that a girl or woman who cannot accept his ‘compliments/advances’ is a ‘bitch’ in all respects: “What? She won’t say ‘thank you’ if I call her pretty?”
3. He believes it hypocrisy that: “If women want equality, why do they keep wanting us to pay for them?”
4. Despite his own self-image and his ascribed mark of a ‘gentleman,’ he’s decided that he’ll wait until he knows the girl’s bought the ticket afore he asks her to prom.
I’ll leave it at four for the reason that I’ll not list his character anymore to smear disgrace upon my blog, but here’s some picture of the boy who’d made me reel in disgust for the ignorance of such boys and the subtle misogyny that pervades much of their influences.
That I were in some mild, belligerent humor after my confrontation with him was apparent. What left a bitter taste in my mouth was his mirthful take on the matter, though he had the mark of ignorance as clear as Cain’s. But, perhaps what troubled me the most was that I saw some bits of myself reflected off of his views. Am I no better than this most base of boys? I’ll not take it to my head so long as I remain aware of myself, but that’s proving to be more difficult than I imagined these days.
It’s three o’clock in the morning, give or take a few short breaths. I mustn’t let myself slip into mediocrity, or the baseness of my own character. That I have to make amends for every bend of the road says little for what I can accept as straight and honest self. I’ll surface to say ‘forgive me for what I will do,’ rather than hold myself accountable to my faults. Swept under the rug, all I’ve done is leave the worser and more malleable parts of me unaltered and ignored. Such an ignoble person as I, who collects forgiveness before the crimes he’d rather not commit, will remain as s/he is - in a vicious circle of self-loathing and forgiving.
As of late, I’ve found myself in a ‘cognitive cloud,’ so-called for my inhibited mental capacity for simple problems and functions, dramatically dissimilar to that self a year ago. I could lay fault in the earth and stars for having turned and aged me to such an age as this senior year. ‘It’s the times, man’ I said to a friend whose downfall is neither tragic or heroic, yet as we share the free falling we’re both content to hit the ground come June and dust ourselves up in time for next year. I’m sure we could pull ourselves through this.
An often thought phrase for me is that ‘regardless of how you decide to ‘deal with it’ (whatever it is), you’re gonna be dealing with it.’ That you are presented with a problem and eventually pass it, whether by solving or circumventing entirely, is an inevitability of however you decide on living. Even inaction is a choice, and all other decisions are equal in function as answers to life, the universe, or whether or not you’ll study for exams.
If I’ve written this far, then I’ve whiled away a good few sighs writing rather than working. You see? Another answer to another problem. Though, perhaps problem is too harsh of a term. How about, ‘the parameters of my state of existence in which I make decisions regarding my study habits’? I’ve wasted away here far too long in the eloquent decadence of words, and I’m drunk out of love of doing so, very much like the man who continues to speak to an empty hall long after the period, both being so vain and contrived. Think it as the horse who cracks its own whip to gallop, or not.
If you’ve read this far, I shouldn’t ask for the forgiveness for having taken your time - I’ve been told I am too sorry of a man already. But, it is entirely possible that I’ve poorly explained myself. Feel free to write something to me, or not. Again, the decision is yours entirely.
Good night, and good luck.
I love making people who already hate me hate me more
So you finally prove that all your friends are really just out to get you. What then? Was it really worth it?
You think you’re at the end of some well-devised joke when, really, it was you all along - peddling lies and tricks to yourself to an empty hall. Where’s the pride in that? A selfish thought in an indifferent universe.
Here’s the question: will you be more proud of the enemies you’ve made, or the friends you’ve lied to?
Regardless, it seems that I am ill content without hate and discontented with it. As invested as I am in life and love and other business, all the gold I’ve spent has been smelted and beaten by irons and fires and the very hate I project onto others to the extent of engendering it from them. Thus, this hate fuels fires that burn us all, but none more so than the one who sparked the first flames of sins and hate.
Start of another goddamned day on me. It’s got nothing to do with God, as much as it is with my own self-loathing. I’ve damned myself to the extent of nearly forgetting what brought me here. I need to return to normalcy, whatever that may be.
I want to be a dandelion you find on the side of the road
Because maybe then you’d pick me and caress me,
Even if in the end you rip my golden petals apart
Or send me off in the wind to be a distant memory.
i understand that my previous tries have all been good runs (at least, I like to think so). it just sucks, y’know? i mean, the last time, she was terribly awesome, and i couldn’t keep up with that. of course, i’m not much of anything once you meet the company i keep. yeah, i feel a little worthless around them, don’t know about you. it was my own damn fault, and a shame that i’ve carried for a while. she was a great gal, and i felt some kind of love in that. but, it’s all to do with who i was: i wasn’t the right guy, i guess. still gets to me, y’know? i remember the moments i realized that she was, for lack of a better writer/boyfriend, a really great person. there was the bonfire, the beach, the tree, and just every time after she said yeah. i know i’m a weird guy, but aren’t i allowed to be a little scared that someone’s actually seen me? i mean, more than that, someone had agreed to give me a chance. of course, i failed at that. still, my breath was held every time i saw her. there’s a difference between the two i had loved, which is that one was real, and i mean tangible. i began seeing myself as someone who could be with other people thanks to her. she was awfully good, and i’ll keep that much in my memory. no matter how much bitterness i talk, that’s just who i turned into. i’d say that i was always this way, but that’s not true. she eased this old heart of mine, almost sedated it to death. and i’ll keep those little deaths with me. my heart beats now for all the times it beat for her. it wouldn’t be the same if not for her, and that much is true.
[what I do while I’m writing]
I understand it could have ended on better terms, or have been better throughout. Yet, I still grit my teeth and take pains for those pains I already have. I could rail again and again, against the things that often peddle a grindstone heart, sharpening the bitter taste in my mouth and thoughts in my mind. But, those words don’t taste any better than the thing that caused them. So I try not to talk about those bitter things - well, I’ll say them when the days won’t pass without, and I need to wail before I will myself to sleep.
[a break in which I watch Doctor Who and lose my train of thought]
I’m still trying to figure out where I am in this corner of the world I’ve surrounded myself with. On one level, I wasn’t made to be here - I just forced my way into some place I ought naught to be.
[to be continued on a later note, as I’ve lost patience with myself]
You know those times in which you can’t decide if you’re happy or sad so you decide that you’ll be both, like that quote from The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and so you pick up your feet and keep going and everything seems good? And then at some point you hit something and it stops you and sits you down and for a while you are very much not happy and much more sad. But then again something kicks you up out of that seat and into motion and you’re once again alright and you listen to an upbeat song and you go for a run and things begin to look up. And sometimes you sense a smile sneaking on your face even though you feel guilty for it and think maybe you don’t deserve that smile despite what everyone says. But other times, your throat tightens and the only things that come to mind are the ones that terrify you and grip you in the middle of the night when sleep won’t come. And you feel like an idiot because well, you’re not quite certain, in the way that you’re not certain about anything, including how you’re not happy or sad but something quite in the middle.
What can I add to a thought that encapsulates an emotion so well? That I can ‘like’ this bit of writing doesn’t say much, as I like most of my friends’ writings.
But, I have my own understanding of this described feeling to the extent that I haven’t thought to examine it outside of a common trait. That happiness and sadness can both be fickle things, both carry some good and bad with them, I take residence in mediocrity. There is where my estates lie, where I’ve invested myself to the extent of a timeshare condominium and perhaps a weekend holiday every other day in reverie and reality- which is to say I don’t see myself without our outside of such a tumultuous state. Awareness of this state of mind is the resurfacing breath of a nameless Jack from depths and leagues of darkness and water, when he at once realizes the predicament he has found himself in before becoming lost again to tide and turn, amongst flotsam and jetsam.
I like books that have a happy ending where they end up together.
I like movies that end with a kiss or a hug or a laugh.
I like things that make me feel good and I don’t really understand why some people feel like that’s less valuable.
It’s not like I ignore the fact that there are problems in the world, that things need to be fixed, that sometimes life is sad, awful, and discouraging.
But I have the happy endings to my favorite books memorized and the spines are cracked to the spots that make me smile.
And I will laugh along to a movie because it makes me feel better.
So don’t tell me that my enjoyment of this makes me less intelligent, cultured, or grown-up.
I don’t care.
I love the things that make me happy and that’s alright.
I literally spent my day watching romantic comedies and talking to my cousin about our problems. I like investing myself into a romance that doesn’t need to be analyzed or torn apart. I stick with the main girl/boy from beginning to end, and I feel a little better inside. Maybe I won’t find that kind of thing - I know I won’t. But, just let me enjoy a little bit of fiction to get me by.
It used to be we met up on Fridays to watch movies over at Brittany’s house. We called it Movie Night Fridays, or at least she named it. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I had no idea how much it would mean to me until late in the year, when it was too late.
Even this far into it, I’m finding it hard to wrap my head around the ideas of friendship and relationships of any nature. Sure, they’ve helped me a lot in ways that I’m not sure I could have gone without, considering what I’m going through in life and mind. Still, I constantly forget my relation to them, or that I’m even a part of the group. At times, it’s like I’m only viewing the narrative of their life in a third-person perspective. I am pained my some omnipresent, self-erected difference between myself and everyone else, and that is what keeps me from being myself - I’m too often discontented with myself and cannot experience unless in terms of regret.
But, tonight is something I want to remember. It wasn’t my first time taking over for Brittany, but this time felt different. Perhaps I was more vulnerable than before, having gone through another rejection (L. Huynh, if you can remember who that is whenever you’re reading this) and some mindset of futility not only in my love life, but in my other relationships as well.
“Oh, in five years time, where will we be? Wherever that is, it’ll be without these people, so don’t get too attached”
“Oh, but I love them so much and I do, I do want to have them in my life! It isn’t fair that I’m given so little time to enjoy this bit of nectar, just let me have this bit of good!”
The truth is that the only thing that would prevent my wanting good from having it is the taking of it, or actually the lack thereof. I’ve gone through every days’ struggles to just keep pressing forward, I can give this a go and take what good I want in the world by force. Though, this is the mind of a young man who needs to spend time being a young man, rather than what volatile state he is in now. Though equally so, this may be the way of adolescence. Eh, what is will be, and what will become is something to look forward to, if not any other way.
The purpose in my writing this at such a late hour is to say that it helps to accept the friends I don’t think I deserve when they break out of the spheres I’ve known them in.
When everyone was on my couch, with me in the corner of the room, I couldn’t imagine myself being in there; not just physically, but actually as well. Yet, here they were - sitting on my couch and being friendly as friends can be (or so I’ve read in texts and literature, something I believed to be a simple literary device). It took me all of the night afore I could find myself between all my friends and starting to become happy, relaxed, or whatever that good feeling I felt was.
That I only remember tumultuous times, my bloodied fists at the end of each day, and the regrets I’ve come to define as myself, I don’t know where that green grass grows. But, from where I lay, I see the roots in the corners of my eyes.
To C. J.,
That we’re so young, I know our best years are ahead of us. There’ll be a time when you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine - that’s just the way things go sometimes. But, in spite of that, I know I made a good friend in you (at first, slowly, then all at once), and I know you’ve made good on that unspoken bond.
Back then, and even now, there never was a reason to bring it up. Like some worthwhile friendships, it came slowly and without alarm before we found ourselves in each other’s good company. That’s how childhood friendships work, I suppose. I didn’t figure too much on it, or how it would all change with the passing of time and the lengthening of intervals between our meetings. Rather, I didn’t want to figure on it. I mean, who would? I was lucky to find a group of friends with whom I can relax with and feel no real pressure from during the volatile place that is high school. Lucky to always know where to find my friends, and where to go when I just needed a friend. Now that I’m here to reflect on it, I’m a sorry friend for not having done more when we had the time for it. Now look at us: at the precipice of our teenage years, so ready to go forward into whatever future we’re meant for. Where will we be in five years, you reckon? Out doing something with our lives, I hope. I wouldn’t know, it’s been too long of a while for me to be caught up in your life. That’s what happens, I suppose. After all this time, we just get into a routine every time we get together again. Same for all of the guys. But, whatever we’ve kept going these past eight years is worth all the gambles you could ever take on someone you’ve invested so much into, and I’m willing to perpetuate this with the same trust I’ve put in you and the rest of the guys.
You’ve all meant a lot to me. Though I don’t have enough words to express it, you can see it in all the hours we’ve spent sitting around and just laughing at each other. That’s all we needed to get by, a few stories and some more figures of speech. That’s what I’ve spent my time with, and what I’ll miss most when the time comes when we’ll have fewer stories between us, and longer intervals with only silence and memories to keep us company.
But, as with all good things we’ve shared, we’ll come back someday. We’ll remember together, and regret together all the time spent whiling the hours away without each other’s good company. Though, we won’t linger for long on such thoughts. We’ll be busy introducing new loves, new stories, and more time spent together. Maybe Cody will finally fall in love with a girl, or Danny will find a girl who loves him. Eric and Ian would have brought new girls every time, proclaiming they’re the one. Nic’s too much of a romantic to be a swinging bachelor for too long. Then you and I will happily introduce each other to our partners, laughing at the fact that we were all once kids without a clue how the passing of time worked.
We’ll keep in touch through the years, however hard they hit us. Past all of the years spent apart, we’ll find ways to come back, even if it’s only in memory. I hope that we’ll remember each other after years apart, when we’re all laughing toothless and with wrinkly, old smiles. The sentimentality in some of my words may be overwhelming, and I’ve got a big, stupid grin on my face just thinking about it, but the sentiment remains. We’ve been good friends for long enough to know where we’ll go from here, so remember where we left off our last conversation and continue from there.
Then, against some aforementioned shades of paleness and stillness, the land proved brilliant and beautiful in its promised splendor. That often writ nature of the world that I too often wanted to experience is now before me, and here I look on into the confines of white, blank pages in order to attempt a recorded understanding of what my waking mind is dulled from taking in. Here is grass grown natural and full to the extent of its own will, trampled o’er into travelled places, marking the paths we took to see the unforeseen vistas and making clear where humanity ended and the world began. The brush o’erwhelms the beaten hills and lays amongst green and gold hues that grass attunes itself to in accordance to light, shadow, and stillness. Yet, with all brush and thorns and thistle and grass and roots considered, this domain of mountainous earth remains subject to the stump and trunk of wood and leaf that form trees that adorn the sides of hills and valley and mountain alike. As if these forms of rock and earth were blanket to the land, forests of olden wood and younger sapling would break through the folds and indentations that curved throughout. That these remain the core of it, the ground, the books, the academes from whence doth spring the true cerebral existence of the landscape.
So it is with the Romantic nature of some writers, the storied lust after some unrightfully glorified thing as nature and love.
That I have such wonderful friends as good company is a hard thing to swallow for me. At times, I am subject to my own insecurities to the extent that I feel a ghost (^3) outside of myself, and may even project such self-effacing and incriminating thought upon those of whom I call friend (and close ones at that). The imagined disregard I’m held in is a logical fallacy at the start, yet as I introduce the engendered thoughts and actions of such an idea, they become real and tangible to the extent of my own imaged end becoming actual. I cannot apologize enough to my friends for the way that I’ve behaved, especially to those I’ve wrongfully hurt out of context and rationality. How I can right the wrongs I’ve done, I never will know; all I have done is write them as lonesome thoughts without connection. How can I thank you for marking me as ‘friend’ when I’m still defining the concept of it? That my heart craves and repels the practices of friendship in equal measure is, understandably, a volatile and discomforting state of person to be around. So, I hope you’ll understand where I’m coming from when I say that I do love this friendship of ours, yes - but I am having trouble defining exactly what it is. Bear it with me, please. I’m actively working on keeping the better parts of myself and ridding those things which pain me to keep. As any human from their ends, I’m a work in progress. The difference between some and others is that the seams of self-improvement and affliction show, and there seems at times no hope for such cognitive ruts or inane circles of paradoxal thought.
Please, forgive me. I never meant to hurt either of us.