Despite all initial indications - despite, at times, hundreds thousands of latter indications - some people are just not nice, at least not when it really matters.

It doesn't make a difference, though, even though every spare instance of logical thought screams at you that it should make a huge difference, it simply doesn't. Not in the long run, anyway. You know what you know, and you feel what you feel, and the sad truth is that the two are not always complimentary.

You find yourself forced to choose between the truth and the fantasy, but it's not such a daunting task, because there is no choice. The heart wins, every time without fail or even much hesitation, the heart wins.

In summary, I'm fucked.

Fingers fumbling finding feeling fondling finally forcefully fusing firmly.

Looking over the fence. Admiring the green grass. Barely noticing my neighbor, my mirror-image, coveting my lawn.

Some forces attract and others repel. Sometimes there's a balance, and this bullshit I use instead of a life makes a little bit of sense.

Tasting the sour grapes. Wondering if I can ever love them. Realizing that I already do.

I have this word that keeps emanating from my lips.

It's not a nice word, and it's certainly not an earned word.

I wish the word would stop being the sound that my lips make when they decide to make an ostensibly random sound.

I wish the word would go back to hiding inside my head, with its brethren, until the day when it's really needed.

Not that I expect that to happen.

I heard about this open-mic thingy the other night. I didn't go, but I heard about it. One of the things I heard was that there were some "real" writers there.

I like to imagine myself as a real writer. Not now, I mean, but someday, in the future, maybe. I think I have it in me; that combination of passion and creativity that's so necessary. I've certainly got the passion, and the creativity is in here somewhere, rattling around in my head like a quarter you've left in your jeans when you did a load of laundry. Now it's in the dryer, banging and clanging.

Trying to take the chaos inside me and distill it into something that's both meaningful and interesting. It's tough sometimes, impossible at other times, but it feels downright effortless on nights like tonight. Nights when I've fucked up and it feel like this keyboard is absolutely all I have left. Every part of me, every iota of anything and everything that makes me who I am and how I am - all escaping by the only path available, flowing down through my fingers and onto my keyboard.

It has to escape. It fucking has to, because it's unbearable to be inside my head on nights like tonight.

Nights when I've fucked up.

Nights when I'm sorry.

Anyway, I know that this entry sucks. Just because something seems easy doesn't mean that it's any good.

One time, two times, three times, four times.

I wonder if there will be any more times.

Because that would be cool.