Can’t wait for a change of scenery for a few months.

Always think before you speak. For real this time…

It’s hard to hate something so natural, so essential to your being.
Is it even worth worrying? You can’t stop the Earth spinning, rivers flowing, time passing. And time cures all they say. Maybe time will smooth things over, smooth my edges. Turn my beer-bottle shards into sea glass and great boulders to grains of sand.
For now though, the hatred bubbles and boils in my veins with what seems only one way to let it out.
Never have I yearned for something more. Or at least not to this extent. I have to learn how to adapt, how to change myself and my expectations. I can’t change people. I can’t wait for them to catch up. I can’t wait to move on.

I’m not sure if it was the right decision, or even the best one, but I want to tell myself it is. I want to tell myself it will be the last one. I want to tell myself I won’t let things get away from myself again, that I won’t make the same mistakes, choose better friends, make better decisions, be proactive and perceptive.

But I know none of those things are true.

I know I can’t see the future or read people’s minds, and I wish I could, but I can only know my own thoughts and my own path. So I’m taking a turn down a new one, unworn, untraveled, and foreign to many.

May the future be brighter than the gray days behind me.

Like tiny paramecia swimming endlessly
Thriving off the energy
From the bonds
They break.

Wild. Free to come and go,
Darwin the only guide
For the choices
They make.

The food they seek, weak and meek,
Hides alone in the deep.
Down to shadows will it go until they come, they find,
They take.

Across the Sea of Half-Regrets,
Guided by the current,
They hardly leave
A wake.

The gentle descent back into depression is strangely comforting. Like the heavy warmth of a thick comforter or the first sip of a good tea. The aches and pains give reason to cuddle up with a stuffed polar bear, and the aches themselves feel like the warmth that only accompanies greeting old friends.
It’s definitely a subtlety. Life is subtleties: blue skies, clean laundry, a favorite place to work or read, warm soup, fresh coffee, the sand between your toes, the Earth beneath your feet.
…
The stars above.
…
The feeble breath of the wind on a grain of pale blue sand in a sea of darkness.
…
A single grain of pale blue sand sinking into the deep.

Maybe I’m always setting myself up for failure. I’m always going to lose people, and that means I’m always going to lose a part of myself. Isolationism isn’t something I turn to by my own hand. It’s a last resort, a consequence of my earlier actions. I don’t mind living inside myself aside from the constant and real possibility that I’ll go crazy. 

Wringing hands with soap and water,
rubbing til’ they bleed.

No way to get them clean.

No way to wash our hands of blood and guts
and glory.

It’s not all that fun…but it’s not like I can really help it. Feelings are powerful.

I believe I should have a choice in the way I feel, but I don’t, and it just plain sucks.

On a side note, I hate when people try to change to accommodate me. People shouldn’t have to change for others. I can cope.