"She's nothing more than fiction."

In addition: I'm not sure what it is, exactly, that I just experienced. I'm not sure what forced my hand to cover my mouth, what made my eyes reread the same sentence fifteen times, what filled me with the only sensation I've ever wished desperately for without realizing that I actually wished desperately for it. "All we have is now." What just rolled through me like waves of an untempered something? What just forced me to sit back and settle my chin on the desk, eyes closed and silly images dancing there?

Why do I feel like curling up to the strangled notes of a far-away do-you-realize? Do you realize? Do you realize that happiness makes you cry?

Here's the thing: I'm no longer at the end of my rope.

Here's the thing: ...

I'm not afraid to be weak, now.

I love you.

"She's lost in coma where it's beautiful,
Intoxicated from the deep sleep...deep sleep;
Do you wonder what it's like
Living in a permanent imagination?
Sleeping to escape reality...but you like it like that.

Guilty by design -- she's nothing more than fiction.
She dreams in digital, 'cause it's better than nothing.
Now that control is gone, it seems unreal...
She's dreaming in digital.
She dreams in digital..."

Sometimes it's hard to breathe and dream at the same time. Sometimes it's hard to watch your big-brain paint pictures on the front side of your skull and know that perhaps (oh, maybe) those images will never, ever be realized in full. Sometimes the shiny globules of paint stick to my eyes and dry there...fixing with permanent, perfect loquaciousness all the reasons I'll never be able to be completely honest, endlessly raw, doubtlessly and wantonly emotional. I let the candyman fill me with his contraband, and now in the sterile white-ness I'm dreaming in digital. Perfectly something, the way I feel when speaking with you; perfectly nothing, the way I feel when attempting to put into written words what it is, exactly, that I feel.

Ashes to ashes.

"You're a god and I am not...and I just thought that you should know."

I've been listening to a chorus comprised of "do you realize" over and over again. I've been curled up on this pretty blue chair for an hour now in the dark. I've been toying with this little stumpy white candle for a long time, I've been contemplating the depth and details of certain sentiments that have been trickling through my veins like cold stars for even longer, and still the pathetic barbs of perpetual alone-ness stick me in a thousand places. Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die? Do I muse about death too often? Am I considerably more enthralled with the topic than what is normal? Is the phrase "romantic tragedian" too complex a title for me? We're the same kind of beast, boy. What do you think? "It's not our fault death's in love with us."

"This road goes on, in my misery, not knowing what comes.
A dying world, my life is fragile, and all I have left is you."

A tiny excerpt from the most heart-wrenching thing I have ever been fortunate enough to read. "You're waiting for someone to put you together, you're waiting for someone to push you away. There's always another wound to discover, there's always something more you wish he'd say." Oh, lord. Why am I still awake, again?

"Each petal peeled back leads me deeper..."

Oh. That's why.