closing shift. (99)

and so. it goes.
i'm not surprised. and is that a horrible and cynical thing to say?
i have a caustic way of thinking when it comes to relationships with any human being, mainly because it involves way too many emotions and developements and common blank walls.
and by relationships, i'm not narrowing it down to merely love.
friendships.
family.
those well loved casual conversations with strangers.
intimate nothings with characters you find in movies or screenplays.

they are all connected. it is all involved. and from what i've found, we are all very self-abosrbed and selfish.

i don't care what anyone says. that is why blogs were invented. that is why people use them. to rant and to engage the senses that only WE think about. here in this lone world of the mind numbing internet, it is merely YOU, I, ME, OUR, and the SELF.

and she claimed that this is all for me.

it's hard to believe that we don't think about ourselves most of the time. not even out of selfishness or splendor, but out of sheer concern for what's next. it's not because i love myself or think that i am doing anything remotely important or different from the next girl with brown hair and an awkward greeting...

no. i know that i am not. i know that the world will forever go on with or without my head full of worries, doubts, and trangressions.

darlin, we don't mean anything. trust me. i know this. and the tears were real. but they werent for anything other than the mere realization thatageageageagedoesdoesntdoesdoesnt matter.

all i know is what i've experienced. i can think about others or read about others or subjects to gain further knowledge on...but i won't ever fully know anything other than the nerves and veins in my thoughts and blood.

being human is fleeting. everyday, that reflux. crossing the street can trigger an emotional breakdown from a memory of father and self at 5. tying your shoe can open up a sensation of love for your partner. watching a movie can sustain confidence in a decision that you werent sure of.

the capacity for our emotions and lingering nostalgia/motives/endeavors/beliefs is complex and frightening.

and now i am left with the ideal to not speak about any of those...or atleast to not go in depth or at length in an effort to not sound so enthused about my own self. which sounds fucking stupid yet honorable.

and all of this sound so layered, drastic and diabolic.

when all i really want is some core of rooted skin, a warm bed, an inviting embrace, and an interesting book at night.




fuck.