I've been here before, in fact this time around I've even nicely documented how I've been here before. Not exactly here, I guess, but close enough. Another Friday night alone and lonely, pitying myself. Contemplating idealized relationships, mine and others’ and about to succumb to intoxication and oblivion.
Just like those not so distant warm summer days. The same, only different. I sit behind a different desk, a bit heavier, obsess about a different girl, but I’m still the lost little boy desperately searching for his comfortable home well hidden amidst a cloud of melancholy and despair.
And I’m supposed to “take care of” people in the not too distant future. I, help others survive when my coping skills… But then again I’ve always been a better preacher than practitioner, editor than composer, a critic than…
It’s not even that I think I deserve better, I’m not THAT narcissistic. Not even that I want more. I wish for more, I dream for more, I yearn for and fantasize about more. Fantasy, fiction, make believe. The illusion of control the comfort and relief of infallibility and irresponsibility. Still a wayward child sifting through the fog.
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