no bigger. no smaller.

I'm not angry. not anymore. I'm frustrated from time to time. The hole is what remains the strongest. A hole specific to you.

I know you just had an ordeal so forgive the bluntness, but seriously, what the fuck?

You write about no more chances, about death, dropped beyond salvation, desolate, wounded and this stubbornness about how this all was-is-and-will-be tragic and inescapable. I still have the same issues with you from the day you crept out of here. I am forever trying to see the good. Forever gathering for the journey.

I doubt very much that there is no one in the world you can talk to. For godsakes I am "talking" to you. It may not be easy to reach out to people. maybe that is what you meant. maybe that is what you should say. I feel very defensive toward you right now. It's like I look and you know, but that's as far as it goes.

Questions seem like almost a mistake, but I cannot help myself.

How is it possible that you can only be what you hate, want what you are too afraid to have? Why do you have to be stuck? Why do you choose the life unloved? What do you want from me? I am obviously listening. Do you just want this strangers in the night stuff? You miss New York? So go back. You were a traitor? Absolutely. Get over it. Stop being one cause that's all you can do. Stop romanticizing the hurtful acts and the fear. If you are still choking on what could have been then figure out how to get it. I know these words are lost on you. And this feeling in the pit of my stomach is not going to make a difference, this clenching of my body, this gut wrenching need to transfer some of myself to you so you could just grow up. take steps. Listen. Act. Something besides write. I've started to think about your writing. I've always been in awe of it, supported it. Lately I've been wondering if it isn't something of a disease.

Chances are second nature to me. If I were a different person I would kill myself, too.

Anyway I think I am calling it quits. It's never what I want, but I've done my best to get what I want and now I have to do my best to accept that I can't have it. After all of this you don't call, you don't write. Hospitals are direct. Suicide is direct. I don't think it is too nuts to think communication should be as well. I appreciate your participation in my blog therapy lately. I will be honest and say that I am bugged when I can't read what you write and equally bugged when I don't know if you are reading what I write. I wanted the world of our words to be safe.

I'm sad and the wound goes on... no bigger. no smaller.

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