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Description
I've never wanted to escape from who I am but, at the same time, that man has never particularly pleased me either. He is cowardly, slovenly and admittedly a little dull; and this is simply me singing his praises. He is indecisive and afraid, not of one thing but of all of things. He is duplicitous and a fool, the only person he truly deceives being himself. The one battleground from which he would most like to flee is the one he can never truly forget or be rid of: himself.

The scars he bears come self-inflicted and self-described. Few people would know it to look upon him as the few scars that do mar his flesh are old now; everything that burdens him lies only deep-seated in his mind. Thoughts of fear and death and loathing mixed in with what little hope and faith remains. Is there a God or Fate or Destiny? I know only that he does not know and does not believe. He turns a blind eye easily. Too easily.

To speak of duality, of all things being mirrored and opposed. Of white glass and black glass, but there is only grey glass. What does he truly know? He has done nothing of note, nothing to be proud of. But pride therein still holds too well and he recognizes this. I said a fool, I meant it. They call him an intelligent and he shows them only the clown. For what, I ask? Does he know? If he does, he will not speak on it. A shame, really; we drew so close to the truth.

And what of truth do you know, if I might ask? Nothing, I assure you. He knows nothing. The duplicity is introverted and self-propagating he tells another. More lies? It seems all too likely. Can he be held responsible for his lies if he did not know them as lies before he foolishly expelled them from his mouth? No and yes. It's perception, you see.

But, alas, the foolish are foolish. There is no bravery to be had. Nothing vicariously to be lived or gained. Only desperation and sorrow. And his life is not bad, has never been bad. It is he who is bad, incapable of recognizing what is before him. Not able to see the forest for the trees. Or maybe it's the trees for the forest? Probably neither.

It is blindness and so trite it is. To always hope but always fear. A contradiction. Once not bad but now taken to horrible extremes. To always live life in fear of what was, what is, what may come. Unable to free himself because freedom is just a different color of cage. Unable to see the color, regardless, for the floor at his feet.

It is not cynicism, perhaps. But what of that would he know? To argue semantics, watching as the hands of the clock tick by. One at a time, an hour by an hour until all the hours have fled. Sad, I think is the word for his folly. All too sad. But do not lament his actions; for a fool fools only himself.

To take the first step, is it truly so hard? The hardest perhaps? And then it gets easier? He wouldn't know. A chasm separates him from that step, too great to traverse without falling in. And, perhaps, he would rather die than fall. But, of all things, he likely fears death the most. No progress to be had.

And what is this that he feels? For so long to call it nothing, then to feel something. More fright and frustration than anything truly genuine. To cast it all aside again is what he wishes, but he is incapable. He cannot let go. And, soon, he may have no choice. Again the fool. Always the fool.

And what is this, then, that flows from fingertips to proverbial paper? More escapist nonsense, I suppose. Another out, another way to flee. It's all he can do, really. Good for nothing else. All the milestones of adulthood he skipped, trying to forget. And then it was too late. Too much fear and apprehension to go back. Is there such a thing as well-adjusted? Perhaps not. But I wouldn't know.
---
So many doubts. Too many doubts. Where do I begin? With the hate, the anger, the jealousy? The hate is done. But the anger...

I am angry. Not always angry, but always angry. Inconsolable and absolute. Nagging at the edge of consciousness, it is always enough, always too much. I am not good enough, I fear. And fear leads to anger, as they say.

I am afraid. So afraid. Too afraid. Is it unfounded? Perhaps, but I do not believe so. I see as hope always crumbles, a pristine castle decayed by decadence. It never leaves but lays buried beneath the endless, turbulent tides of doubt. But it is not simple fear. It is truth.

There is so much in my thoughts that brings to me spirits of anger and jealousy. It is stupid and infantile but these thoughts are doubts that cast shadows so long I do not feel that I could find my way from their umbra. I do, of course, for a time. But they return no matter how much I wish them to stay away. Much to my chagrin. Still, at least I can smile.

How much longer can I last? For how much longer can I pretend to this solemn jocularity? Too long, I feel is the answer. This mask has done much for me, I fear, but this is both for and against; I have been held back as much as advanced. No. Held back far more than I was advanced. Far, far more.

I have always evaded this. Emotions and thoughts deep-seated, always present but always escaped. It is better, I think, that I face them now. Better that I cease my flight and stand before myself. Better that I finally bow to myself as judge, jury and executioner. Will I be granted leniency? I can hope for as much. But I fear I am not that kind.

Regardless, at the least, there is always hope. Always light and expectancy. I am prideful and selfish but even I am not so prideful as that. Would that be the ultimate hubris, to hold oneself so high that the fall is death? I pray that I never know. Another hope, I fear.
---
Anger and doubt interspersed by love. Am I happy? No. Am I content? For now. But, I fear, not for long. I did not speak of threats but of what may come to pass; no man may know every eventuality no matter how hard they strive. I was shown that and it angered me. Did it surprise me? I do not know. Perhaps.

To receive what I desired, but at the same time I have not changed. I still push, but now each shove becomes more and more subtle, even more so than before. When one knows what to seek, you must change what to look for. I should apologize. But my condition prevents me.

So much has changed, yet so little. I am still undeserving. There is hope, yes, but to drive one away... I fear I have done too well. Far, far too well. No amount of sorrow may ever express my lamentations no matter how hard or long I should strive to do so. Maybe it is my fault. Maybe I should walk away from all I have and all that I am. Maybe we would both be better for it.

Alas, I fear that I cannot. I have never been able to do what is right or good, only what benefited me. Selfishness and pride rule the day. And, one day, I will rue that.

Still, all is not hopeless. A flip of the coin, perhaps, but not devoid. I live my life one day at a time, breaking my mask each night and affixing a new one in the morning. Some are good, some are bad, most are both; a habit I have not broken I fear. Like a joker am I, too much so. Too serious, I think, for this home on this plane.

I have hope. Always, I have hope. Sometimes less, sometimes more. If you wish to know the answer to any question, it is that. Some masks are happy, some are sad. Many are both. Sometimes they break before their time, as you have seen.

No matter what may pass, I hope only that one thing will remain. I can promise nothing, for I fear I would break that promise all too quickly. But hope, there is always room for hope. And I hope only this: that I will love you, now, and forever.
---
And now I sit here, stirred again from slumber by doubt and revulsion, reminded only of that thing I can no longer say. Fears not levied but intensified by your words. I am not blind, and now my heart feels nothing but sickness.

I was never nice because I did not know how to be. Terrible, perhaps, but true. And, now, all poetry having fled, I am left only with these words that seem so empty, so hollow. But I can try.

I feel the echoes, the throes of bells that ring as with a funeral dirge to blacken my soul with contempt and hate. As if the rains of an endless storm, each reverberation of that toll takes its toll on me afresh, each new ringing in my head a new hell from which I cannot escape. Each new hour that dawns another charred body to add to the mountain of corpses that now grows so high from my spiritual deaths.

I do not know what I can do. I know only what I feel. I can admit that, at this hour, my mind is riddled and adled- by anger, still, and by lack of sleep. But my anger is still turned ever inward and still is not abated. At the least, the blood that stains my hand has not weakened it. And, also, I am thankful it is only my blood.

I am distressed, ever distressed, by what is said, what is done. It fills me with things I have never had to face before, fears I have never had to address. And now I have more. And, as much pain as I am caused, I feel only right when I am near you. That, I think, is enough.
---
Blessed respite- or is it repose?- from that which has plagued me longest: my own thoughts. I use my clarity only to pen this; for what reason I do not know. I can tell no one from where this break from myself comes. It is nothing bad but, at the same time, I would still fear what people would think. Idiotic, I know. But that is not new to me.

I tried to calm myself with laughter but what once brought me joy now brings me pain and anger. Everything I hear stings my mind, stimulates it with some new agony to torment me. I said it and I meant it: I wish I had destroyed my mind long ago. To share it with... this... is not something I would wish upon anyone. Just look at all this. Just the very edge of what endless black ocean awaits me in my own prison; only a taste of what taints my consciousness.

Shorter, now. I am quickly running short on things to say. The vague and arbitrary nature of this is hard, so hard, to perpetuate. But I have little else, now. Soon more. Or less. I don't know. One and then the other. In what order I do not know. I do not care to know.

But it is my own fault. All of this. All of it. The worry, the anger, the fear. If I could let go of something- anything- it would be so much easier. But I can't. Because it is unfair. Why should I escape punishment when I would inflict it upon others? Hm. I wonder if that sounds familiar.

Pain is the only true path to happiness. Triumph made all the sweeter by tribulation. Each new defeat bringing victory that much closer. But to turn a blind eye to it is useless. Suffrage is universal. But it is not all that is. Then again, what do I know? After all, I am only a fool. Now and ever.
---
I cannot run and I cannot hide and even when I try to work through it I find I have gained nothing. Perhaps there is nothing I can do but go without, cast myself into the cold. Is it harsh? Yes. But if I can see no other way then I am left with no other recourse.

The pain I have caused I can never undo. And thus it is easier to forgot than to forgive and I can never forgive myself. That leaves me only with my own illusions, the shadows that ever dance in my mind.

I hate it that, now, only as I speak of letting go do I feel relief. Is that who I am, truly? A coward and a liar? I have always thought so but... wear the mask for so long, does it truly stay a mask? Even when you have so many, some of the truth shines through. So difficult, it is, to hide the eyes. Perhaps I would be better without them. The less I see the more happiness I can attain. After all, ignorance is, as they say, bliss.

I struggle and I fight, but I am only half. What I seek to know I can never know. Perhaps I was wrong to call this love. I sincerely hope I was not, but now the seed is planted.

Maybe I can never be happy. I never truly was before, why should that change now? To call it fleeting, transient... but does that make it any less important? I'm not certain I know. Not certain I can ever know.

Doubts are doubts. If I could relieve them I would. But I cannot. The strength neither to flee nor to embrace; caught between two hells. Which is the lesser? Would I be any better off were I to know? I cannot believe it so.

The only relief I have is this emptiness I feel now, trapped between between two choices I cannot make. Now I know your hell, as well. It is all too unfortunate, then, that I must choose for I cannot stand inaction. If your happiness means my suffrage, then I can see no other choice. There is always hope, I think. It is just unfortunate that I see no light at the end of this particular tunnel. And I know what that means. Things will go wrong. And I will be the catalyst.
---
Love is gone. Emptiness is the rule of the day. I was right. So right. And never has it been so bitter.

Where once the light seemed so bleak, now I can see the shimmer in the air. Barely breaking, but still. I know now what I can do, must do. I will do my best to break myself and become everything I wanted to be. I owe that to myself more than anyone.

And, should you see this, I am sorry. Everything I said was genuine but still false. Never speaking the truth, never quite a lie. You deserved better than who I was, what I am. I'll be better some day.

But, above all else, I am sorry. I can never be excused and I can never atone. But I will try. In my own, selfish way, but still. It's something.

Description
I've never wanted to escape from who I am but, at the same time, that man has never particularly pleased me either. He is cowardly, slovenly and admittedly a little dull; and this is simply me singing his praises. He is indecisive and afraid, not of one thing but of all of things. He is duplicitous and a fool, the only person he truly deceives being himself. The one battleground from which he would most like to flee is the one he can never truly forget or be rid of: himself.

The scars he bears come self-inflicted and self-described. Few people would know it to look upon him as the few scars that do mar his flesh are old now; everything that burdens him lies only deep-seated in his mind. Thoughts of fear and death and loathing mixed in with what little hope and faith remains. Is there a God or Fate or Destiny? I know only that he does not know and does not believe. He turns a blind eye easily. Too easily.

To speak of duality, of all things being mirrored and opposed. Of white glass and black glass, but there is only grey glass. What does he truly know? He has done nothing of note, nothing to be proud of. But pride therein still holds too well and he recognizes this. I said a fool, I meant it. They call him an intelligent and he shows them only the clown. For what, I ask? Does he know? If he does, he will not speak on it. A shame, really; we drew so close to the truth.

And what of truth do you know, if I might ask? Nothing, I assure you. He knows nothing. The duplicity is introverted and self-propagating he tells another. More lies? It seems all too likely. Can he be held responsible for his lies if he did not know them as lies before he foolishly expelled them from his mouth? No and yes. It's perception, you see.

But, alas, the foolish are foolish. There is no bravery to be had. Nothing vicariously to be lived or gained. Only desperation and sorrow. And his life is not bad, has never been bad. It is he who is bad, incapable of recognizing what is before him. Not able to see the forest for the trees. Or maybe it's the trees for the forest? Probably neither.

It is blindness and so trite it is. To always hope but always fear. A contradiction. Once not bad but now taken to horrible extremes. To always live life in fear of what was, what is, what may come. Unable to free himself because freedom is just a different color of cage. Unable to see the color, regardless, for the floor at his feet.

It is not cynicism, perhaps. But what of that would he know? To argue semantics, watching as the hands of the clock tick by. One at a time, an hour by an hour until all the hours have fled. Sad, I think is the word for his folly. All too sad. But do not lament his actions; for a fool fools only himself.

To take the first step, is it truly so hard? The hardest perhaps? And then it gets easier? He wouldn't know. A chasm separates him from that step, too great to traverse without falling in. And, perhaps, he would rather die than fall. But, of all things, he likely fears death the most. No progress to be had.

And what is this that he feels? For so long to call it nothing, then to feel something. More fright and frustration than anything truly genuine. To cast it all aside again is what he wishes, but he is incapable. He cannot let go. And, soon, he may have no choice. Again the fool. Always the fool.

And what is this, then, that flows from fingertips to proverbial paper? More escapist nonsense, I suppose. Another out, another way to flee. It's all he can do, really. Good for nothing else. All the milestones of adulthood he skipped, trying to forget. And then it was too late. Too much fear and apprehension to go back. Is there such a thing as well-adjusted? Perhaps not. But I wouldn't know.
---
So many doubts. Too many doubts. Where do I begin? With the hate, the anger, the jealousy? The hate is done. But the anger...

I am angry. Not always angry, but always angry. Inconsolable and absolute. Nagging at the edge of consciousness, it is always enough, always too much. I am not good enough, I fear. And fear leads to anger, as they say.

I am afraid. So afraid. Too afraid. Is it unfounded? Perhaps, but I do not believe so. I see as hope always crumbles, a pristine castle decayed by decadence. It never leaves but lays buried beneath the endless, turbulent tides of doubt. But it is not simple fear. It is truth.

There is so much in my thoughts that brings to me spirits of anger and jealousy. It is stupid and infantile but these thoughts are doubts that cast shadows so long I do not feel that I could find my way from their umbra. I do, of course, for a time. But they return no matter how much I wish them to stay away. Much to my chagrin. Still, at least I can smile.

How much longer can I last? For how much longer can I pretend to this solemn jocularity? Too long, I feel is the answer. This mask has done much for me, I fear, but this is both for and against; I have been held back as much as advanced. No. Held back far more than I was advanced. Far, far more.

I have always evaded this. Emotions and thoughts deep-seated, always present but always escaped. It is better, I think, that I face them now. Better that I cease my flight and stand before myself. Better that I finally bow to myself as judge, jury and executioner. Will I be granted leniency? I can hope for as much. But I fear I am not that kind.

Regardless, at the least, there is always hope. Always light and expectancy. I am prideful and selfish but even I am not so prideful as that. Would that be the ultimate hubris, to hold oneself so high that the fall is death? I pray that I never know. Another hope, I fear.
---
Anger and doubt interspersed by love. Am I happy? No. Am I content? For now. But, I fear, not for long. I did not speak of threats but of what may come to pass; no man may know every eventuality no matter how hard they strive. I was shown that and it angered me. Did it surprise me? I do not know. Perhaps.

To receive what I desired, but at the same time I have not changed. I still push, but now each shove becomes more and more subtle, even more so than before. When one knows what to seek, you must change what to look for. I should apologize. But my condition prevents me.

So much has changed, yet so little. I am still undeserving. There is hope, yes, but to drive one away... I fear I have done too well. Far, far too well. No amount of sorrow may ever express my lamentations no matter how hard or long I should strive to do so. Maybe it is my fault. Maybe I should walk away from all I have and all that I am. Maybe we would both be better for it.

Alas, I fear that I cannot. I have never been able to do what is right or good, only what benefited me. Selfishness and pride rule the day. And, one day, I will rue that.

Still, all is not hopeless. A flip of the coin, perhaps, but not devoid. I live my life one day at a time, breaking my mask each night and affixing a new one in the morning. Some are good, some are bad, most are both; a habit I have not broken I fear. Like a joker am I, too much so. Too serious, I think, for this home on this plane.

I have hope. Always, I have hope. Sometimes less, sometimes more. If you wish to know the answer to any question, it is that. Some masks are happy, some are sad. Many are both. Sometimes they break before their time, as you have seen.

No matter what may pass, I hope only that one thing will remain. I can promise nothing, for I fear I would break that promise all too quickly. But hope, there is always room for hope. And I hope only this: that I will love you, now, and forever.
---
And now I sit here, stirred again from slumber by doubt and revulsion, reminded only of that thing I can no longer say. Fears not levied but intensified by your words. I am not blind, and now my heart feels nothing but sickness.

I was never nice because I did not know how to be. Terrible, perhaps, but true. And, now, all poetry having fled, I am left only with these words that seem so empty, so hollow. But I can try.

I feel the echoes, the throes of bells that ring as with a funeral dirge to blacken my soul with contempt and hate. As if the rains of an endless storm, each reverberation of that toll takes its toll on me afresh, each new ringing in my head a new hell from which I cannot escape. Each new hour that dawns another charred body to add to the mountain of corpses that now grows so high from my spiritual deaths.

I do not know what I can do. I know only what I feel. I can admit that, at this hour, my mind is riddled and adled- by anger, still, and by lack of sleep. But my anger is still turned ever inward and still is not abated. At the least, the blood that stains my hand has not weakened it. And, also, I am thankful it is only my blood.

I am distressed, ever distressed, by what is said, what is done. It fills me with things I have never had to face before, fears I have never had to address. And now I have more. And, as much pain as I am caused, I feel only right when I am near you. That, I think, is enough.
---
Blessed respite- or is it repose?- from that which has plagued me longest: my own thoughts. I use my clarity only to pen this; for what reason I do not know. I can tell no one from where this break from myself comes. It is nothing bad but, at the same time, I would still fear what people would think. Idiotic, I know. But that is not new to me.

I tried to calm myself with laughter but what once brought me joy now brings me pain and anger. Everything I hear stings my mind, stimulates it with some new agony to torment me. I said it and I meant it: I wish I had destroyed my mind long ago. To share it with... this... is not something I would wish upon anyone. Just look at all this. Just the very edge of what endless black ocean awaits me in my own prison; only a taste of what taints my consciousness.

Shorter, now. I am quickly running short on things to say. The vague and arbitrary nature of this is hard, so hard, to perpetuate. But I have little else, now. Soon more. Or less. I don't know. One and then the other. In what order I do not know. I do not care to know.

But it is my own fault. All of this. All of it. The worry, the anger, the fear. If I could let go of something- anything- it would be so much easier. But I can't. Because it is unfair. Why should I escape punishment when I would inflict it upon others? Hm. I wonder if that sounds familiar.

Pain is the only true path to happiness. Triumph made all the sweeter by tribulation. Each new defeat bringing victory that much closer. But to turn a blind eye to it is useless. Suffrage is universal. But it is not all that is. Then again, what do I know? After all, I am only a fool. Now and ever.
---
I cannot run and I cannot hide and even when I try to work through it I find I have gained nothing. Perhaps there is nothing I can do but go without, cast myself into the cold. Is it harsh? Yes. But if I can see no other way then I am left with no other recourse.

The pain I have caused I can never undo. And thus it is easier to forgot than to forgive and I can never forgive myself. That leaves me only with my own illusions, the shadows that ever dance in my mind.

I hate it that, now, only as I speak of letting go do I feel relief. Is that who I am, truly? A coward and a liar? I have always thought so but... wear the mask for so long, does it truly stay a mask? Even when you have so many, some of the truth shines through. So difficult, it is, to hide the eyes. Perhaps I would be better without them. The less I see the more happiness I can attain. After all, ignorance is, as they say, bliss.

I struggle and I fight, but I am only half. What I seek to know I can never know. Perhaps I was wrong to call this love. I sincerely hope I was not, but now the seed is planted.

Maybe I can never be happy. I never truly was before, why should that change now? To call it fleeting, transient... but does that make it any less important? I'm not certain I know. Not certain I can ever know.

Doubts are doubts. If I could relieve them I would. But I cannot. The strength neither to flee nor to embrace; caught between two hells. Which is the lesser? Would I be any better off were I to know? I cannot believe it so.

The only relief I have is this emptiness I feel now, trapped between between two choices I cannot make. Now I know your hell, as well. It is all too unfortunate, then, that I must choose for I cannot stand inaction. If your happiness means my suffrage, then I can see no other choice. There is always hope, I think. It is just unfortunate that I see no light at the end of this particular tunnel. And I know what that means. Things will go wrong. And I will be the catalyst.
---
Love is gone. Emptiness is the rule of the day. I was right. So right. And never has it been so bitter.

Where once the light seemed so bleak, now I can see the shimmer in the air. Barely breaking, but still. I know now what I can do, must do. I will do my best to break myself and become everything I wanted to be. I owe that to myself more than anyone.

And, should you see this, I am sorry. Everything I said was genuine but still false. Never speaking the truth, never quite a lie. You deserved better than who I was, what I am. I'll be better some day.

But, above all else, I am sorry. I can never be excused and I can never atone. But I will try. In my own, selfish way, but still. It's something.