I sometimes wonder whether the reactions I observe are simply normal, or whether they indicate that some of my fears are founded; that my dealing of human relationships is far too clouded by personal insecurities for any of them to have the sort of depth that I feel others experience. As always I seem doomed to be at the pathetic end of the relationship, almost sycophantic in my praise of the other party, who shows but a mild tolerance to my presence. It is a burden to try and keep the flames still burning, and when I move into the territory that I am now, I wonder whether there is much point to it. Am I just shifting focus away from the real problem, that the diminishing flame indicates I have, yet again, suffocated the thing from the start? But I still dream on though, of having someone care enough to display the initiative to take that first step to resurrecting a dying relationship.

A sombre meditation

Preserved for posterity rather than anything else. The work itself is another case of catharsis through writing, and as such I do not think deserves all that much attention, except from myself.

---

Failure comes in many forms
The unread book beside my bed
The years I've seen floating by
And the future so near.
When I think about it, sometimes
I believe I must be quite mad
And with madness comes no lucidity
Only the nagging question
Have I thrown it all away?
'Perhaps', a ghost will answer
But it is so sad
That I see what I want to be
And also how far away I am.
Does my life have purpose?
Perhaps not; the sweet strains of music
Suggest at something more, and indeed
I do believe there is more
But look at the others
And honestly tell me
'You have found meaning
Your path is true
You have a future yet'
Am I too harsh? Perhaps, but
Is there truth to what I say?
My friend, the answer can only be yes.
You cannot change overnight, sure,
But you must sometimes stop
And think of where you are heading
Before you end up old and unfulfilled
In a life bereft of beauty.

Realities. Some mad hysteria in the morning hardly seems real during the quiet contemplation of the evening. Images are playing back, and I sit and tell myself it isn't me I am seeing. It is dead quiet, and I feel the onset of a cold. An ill-lit room is no comfort as I continue this mental fixation. Let it go, I want to say, but things are never as easy as that. It doesn't matter, those words against your character that may well follow. It is not me, I say, it is not me. I give the monster a name, and the madness clears.

It strikes me - it's because the morning was disrupted. Warm cup of coffee in hand, and totally tranquil...no, that moment is now gone. Till next week then. As night approaches, things give way in my head, and I begin to wonder what is real.