but signals that are mixed,
'cause I can't read your rolling eyes.
out of touch, are we out of time?


I was going to write about loving him and hating him and how they're really the same thing, and I swear it was going to be profound and all that stuff, but I stopped in the middle.
that always spells disaster.
if I stop and come back later, I always think the whole thing is shit.
if I don't just plop it all out at once, it gets stuck and the passion I had planned is trapped inside.

writing stories, for me, is kind of like excreting excrement.
stories come in a fit of inspiration and it all builds up inside and I just have to get it out but sometimes it takes a long time and I give up halfway through and go to bed and then when I come back to finish it the other half usually doesn't come out, or if it does it'll never rejoin the first half, they'll never be whole again, they're broken in two forever.

that and I decided today that I'm done loving and hating him. I'm tired of all this crap, I'm tired of ocean eyes and onions and mermaids and blueandgrayandgreen and the Monroe Street Bridge and the dark corners downtown and his voice and his hair and his guitar and his faggot stache and the wings he said only I could see.
edit: I'm tired of Neverland and 4eva, too. but all those things sure do make for great dreams.
(only I can see the beauty in all that crap, and only I could ever love it so much. you're lucky that I'll love you like this forever, because no one else ever will.)
I'm scared of the intersection of Monroe and Garland, I'm scared of the little yellow house with the ripped screen door (eleven twenty-one west Providence, just a mile due east of where I lived once), I'm scared of the sidewalks with canopies of trees, I'm scared of the street that looks just like my brother Karl's. I dressed up like his best friend and I wrapped a note around his doorhandle and I hoped no one would think I was me but the instant he sees the note he'll know I'm me because his best friend and I share clothes but we do not share handwritings.
"working with you is so much harder when we aren't friends.
if we acknowledge that we're both jerks, can we move past it?
life is just too short for this."

his dreams are so beautiful, I don't want to lose them. I'm tired of dreaming for him and about him. I want to dream with him.
his dreams drew my dreams and my dreams drew his dreams and it was the most beautiful thing, he writes songs and I write stories and my dreams only became so magical when he breathed the magic of his dreams into them.

I miss that.