Yes, this awful year, I am alone as I write on the night meant for drunken celebration. I’m so tired of being mad at people who never did anything to me. It really makes me smell of jealousy, betrayal and being lovesick over something that happened when I was a cosmic puppy. I can pretend that I will be able to move on, but I’m just worried that if I do, I will be letting myself die. It is that beautiful oscillation between resolution and insanity. Maturity. I never believed when everyone told me I would grow out of being in love with the person who I thought was an angel when I was seventeen. For the first time I can remember, I don’t want to die. Kafka says the first sign of understanding is wanting to die. I’m not afraid of it. I never was. I welcomed it with beautiful scars hidden all over my skin. I’d never get a tattoo, though. That is beneath me. But similar in the way I have grown out of self harm, I wonder if it would just be best for everyone if I gave up, let everybody live their life without worrying about me knocking uninvited at their door. I just feel for the first time like I have some sort of purpose, when, in reality, if an asteroid was going to hit the earth in six months, I can’t imagine how absolutely lost I would feel. It is a fragile ego. I wouldn’t write the way I do. I think a part of me writes in the hope that somebody will read it. But only one person really. If everyone became occupied with facing death, unable to redirect their eyes towards a worthless rant, I’d still write, but just for myself, and I’d still read, but not what I waste my time with now. What I’m saying is, I’m so far up my own ass, that I have tunnel vision. I am unable to see how beautiful life is by being so obsessed with trying to capture its beauty. I really astonish myself that I still have things to say. You’d think I’d run out of original material and resort to copy and pasting obscure poets from India and passing it off as my own. Or just go live under a rock. For the first time, in a long time, a year to be exact, and the year before that, do I not feel alone. She is the thing that makes me feel obsolete. I don’t even know all of my friends. It is only when life is right in front of us that we feel a void in the vastness. Looking back it always feels warm, regardless of how many loved ones died in the process, hearts broken, and dreams deferred. So, I don’t know if I should clutch harder onto the past of a callow lover’s loving love loved once (that’s the best thing I wrote this year and I stole it from Joyce) or I should, grow up, admit I was wrong, delusional, grieving, die a little inside, become a little less associated with the most important thing in my life for the past 7 years, take a deep breath, and commit love suicide. Am I strong enough to kill everything my ego has ever been? I’m not talking about psychedelic ego death where drugs infatuate the brain into thinking they have solved all of their problems. I’m talking about being strong enough to kill Peter Pan. Literally. Or does the world deserve a flying free-spirit in green tights. Talk me into or out of it, all it is is just talking, babbling. So many of the decisions we make in life are for other people. What I’m saying is my whole life has been for someone else, but maybe I should just refrain, let it stay gold by crystallizing it. Whatever happens, what ever you once felt, your reservations about love, past loves, your future, can all be undone with one kiss – just the right person walking into your life. I shouldn’t expect that person to be someone specific. It is too much to ask of them, it is too much to ask of me. I don’t want to fill the hole with books and God. I just want…what do I want? Writing would be very lonely without someone to write for.