tryst

You can assume until you fume...until you assume the costume of your own doom....and I'll still be sitting here, unphased, and fertile for the filling.

You would have done well to stop questioning my motives, but it would shame me to ask "What gives?" Blood is thick when there's litter in the line. I saw it coming, and now I've seen it pass. Twice. The first, and the last. Two eyes, and two faces (strong emphasis on the two faces).

There was a phone conversation today. An ordinary phone conversation in an ordinary fashion. He wasn't anxious. She wasn't plotting. He wasn't acting. She wasn't fascinated. He made a funny. She laughed. He laughed at his own funny. It was an ordinary phone conversation. Her hands weren't shaking. She didn't think about her past. He didn't hesitate to answer. He didn't rush to get off. She didn't stop smoking, or turn the music off. She didn't make her roommate leave the room. He didn't hide her identity from a coworker. They didn't really care all that much, because afterall, it was just a fucking ordinary, every day, run-of-the-mill phonecall. Nothing special, nothing worthless...nothing worth mentioning, really.

What's worth mentioning is that somewhere, someone is getting bent out of shape about just that, and it shames me to say that until today, I would have cared.

I stole your pain, eh? For a song. Your pain. Because it was so "real", I apparently felt it vicariously through you. Funny thing is -- if the entirety or even the gist of your pain can be summed up in a one-liner, you should consider writing your own line. Perhaps it could take over and conquer the line that I wrote, and then you could direct your misplaced bitterness elsewhere.

I've just enough pain to make me deliriously happy, thank you. And plenty of extra scraps of sullen joy for songs. And in the end, not a word speaks about anybody besides me. Not one word.

Of all of the things I could easily regret...
The many many multitudes of unpleasant experiences that have decorated my life...so many possible regrets....so many mistakes, so many foully-formed sentences, so much self-indulgence, so much love, so much hate....but of everything I COULD excorcize with the simple desire to regret...I cannot. It is too easy an escape.

I do not have one.