Cemetary Gates

What is it that you have seen in the world that I haven't? Is it all the time in the world that I seem to have that is blinding me from my true potential? Am I too jaded by my (relative) free-will and liberty that I've deluded any true aspect of self-realization? I must be too enraptured with living in my material present.

Is it your imprisonment? The shackles by which you are chained to this suburban wasteland surely must be the causation of your, for the lack of a better term, ingenuity. You inadvertently evoke a plethora of emotions within people, the sheer amount of which you have no idea. Similarly, you fail to realize how high a pedestal we all place you upon. Sometimes it appears in conversation, but in purely referential form, as anything past an allusion to such is nonchalantly shrugged off and simultaneously smugly acknowledged. You are a god among men, and you don't even realize it—Enamored by many, but known on a personal level only to a select few. And yet, even to those few, you are still one enigmatic son of a bitch.

Share the wealth god dammit.

Higher Ground

Maybe I should stop being a self-important asshole. Perhaps I should stop trying to care so much, trying to insert myself into your well being. I don't know whats going on, and likely never will. To that end, I should stop trying to find out. I should back off. We're consistently on different terms, whether I think you perceive it or not. I'm pretty sure I do. You, as usual, are being elusive and practicing dogmatic exclusion, which of course you're completely entitled to. But please, I don't want to be lied to. I'm only trying to be friendly. I care about you, you know.

Or maybe, maybe I'm too analytical. As usual. Too meticulous in my thinking, not pragmatic enough to think clearly. Letting preconceived notions of "emotional attachment" cloud decision making. There's nothing wrong, the only wrong I perceive is exactly that: fabricated by an overactive, over-methodical approach to trying to befriend you. You said things wouldn't be any different, but I can't help but feel that everything is. The worst part is, I can't confront. I'm too afraid, I'm too big of a pussy to talk about it. Right off the bat, I interpreted that you wouldn't want to talk about it anymore, to simply sweep it under the doormat, and pretend as if this ugly little piece of shit never existed. And for awhile, I obliged. But that isn't flying anymore.

I'm much too anxious for that.