The Right Words

The worst part of work isn't the hours, or the management, or the co-workers, or even the wages.
The worst part of work is that it completely exhausts my ability to fake it - you know, being less-than-miserable. I get home and it isn't the exhaustion that does me in, but the aching desire not to have to put up with anything, from anyone at all. I seem to remember having more of this ability, earlier on. I suppose faking a smile comes a little harder when you can't really combat the darkness inside anymore.





Maybe won't is a better word.

Finding the right words can be tough, especially after getting lost inside the metaphors and more complex thoughts. It's often too easy to exaggerate things that are really irrelevant, and in so doing run out of words to describe the truly meaningful. I suppose it has something to do with human nature and appearances - the constant battle of who-has-the-bigger-stick. Writing, I like to say, is translating thought to word...but it is never really so simple.

Like I've said before: I hate writing. It makes me feel like a voyeur, trying to catch a photograph of thoughts in their natural state. Because thoughts, like people, behave differently when you are pointing a camera at them.

Which leads to the point, in a somewhat roundabout way. I don't have any words left, anymore. I've described how I feel in such painstaking detail that on nights when it's just more of the same, I have nothing left to say. I hate repeating myself, whether you can tell or not from the blogs. I can't justify it - feels like another night of bitching about my not-really-so-terrible-life. Sure, I'll get over it and be perfectly okay in the morning. Like always, one foot in front of the other until I finally croak.

Right now, though...I bounce between smoldering rage and self-loathing and this overwhelming lack of interest. I want to hate myself, and that's easy enough for a little while at a time. It's easy enough until my self-preservation mechanism kicks in. I really do hate that thing sometimes.
I want to hate her, even now, even just a little bit.

I'm left with fragments of things I didn't have the courage or knowledge to say, and the reality that I'll never get to say them.

For my own sake, though?

'I stayed with you through everything. I dragged you out of your pit and showed you what light was. I pulled you up, kicking and screaming, away from your demons and showed you how to fight them with fire. I kept you safe, sheltered, loved, in the face of everything.
In return, when I needed you to do it for me, you quit. You walked away.

I guess I was naive to expect anything more, but really? I meant forever. I wish you did too.'

- C