pbbt. and eye rolling.

Do you ever sit and analyze how unhealthy you are? I don't mean physically, though that certainly plays a part. But more your unhealthy patterns, your dysfunction. I do. Which I am sure adds to the unhealthy list. Can't be good for you. I do not think. But it is fascinating.

I make things more difficult than they have to be. Always. Mostly because I am always blind. Not usually tentative. I plow forward taking what comes and doing with it what I feel I can. Which generally is not a lot. My own lacking, never anyone else's. I am not careful with emotions, because I do not understand them. What they do, what they cause, what they effect. Most people will not believe that. But I am careless with them because they have no meaning to me. So it is trial and error. What happens when I do this. It's also why I make things more difficult. Why I beat dead horses.

It effects my relationships with people. I only feel things in the scope of an amputee with phantom pain. I will put everything I have into them, until they are gone. And they are always gone. And will only remember them with that same sort of trickery of nerve synapses. I know that they use to be there. And that they use to be a part of me. I miss them, and it hurts, but it is only an echo of something that has already happened and has no chance of happening again, in the same way.

I don't think people understand this. I want to shake them until they do. As if violence will pave the way for understanding. I do not have enough faith. It requires a leap of faith, to stop having things be an echo, and have them be real. I have enough faith to soldier on, but not enough to build a bridge into permanency. That is where everything begins to fall apart. I am sure I have all the tools needed, just not the knowledge. Not the faith. In this case the two are synonomous, who would have thought that would ever happen? One as etheral a concept as love, and the other equated with concrete, solid. But they are closer than I ever would have believed. With all my studying, learning, looking, and processing I am only now beginning to understand.

I never start anything without being fully aware of its end. And while there is a certain romantic angst to to fatalism, to being tortured and wounded and arty; it does not herald well a bright future.Most of this belongs in a letter I have only begun to write. Which will lay unfinished more than likely.

Because I don't know what my point is. Or what it will change. Or even if it matters.