You know what? It's just too much to write about. It's too fluid, and too real, and too uncertain.

My life is about to end, or it's about to begin.

I fear the former while I fervently hope for the latter. But it's out of my hands. All I can do is wait and see.

Five years, and it's coming down to this.

Will I live, or will I die again?

Last night I was able, thanks to some unseasonably warm weather, to sit out in my detached garage for a while. I'd found a bottle of Schlenkerla Marzen (6789) in my refrigerator and, what with yesterday having been what it was, I needed to drink it. So that's what I did. I sat on my el-cheapo white plastic furniture, drank my yummy beer, and contemplated the universe.

Much like when I went to the grocery store Monday night, I couldn't remember the last time I'd sat in my garage. It had certainly been a while. And, though the circumstances that led me to sit out there last night were pretty horrible, I suppose that I ended up enjoying it. Sometimes it's nice for me to simply enjoy my own company for a couple of hours.

I just sent RockGirl an email. She'd asked me when I slept.

Saturday night I didn't sleep a wink. I finally got to sleep at about 3:00 Monday morning and slept until 7:00. Monday night I think it was about 4:00 when I finally got to sleep. Yesterday after work I actually managed to take a two-hour nap, then I couldn't get to sleep again until at least 2:30.

This is a boring entry.

How do I handle this?

I don't know how, I only know that it needs to be handled.

I did everything I could do, and it wasn't enough. I tried my absolute hardest, and I failed. I was the best person I could be, and I didn't measure up. I went as far as I could go, and I fell short.

However I want to say it and however many times I say it, the sting doesn't lessen.

How do I handle this?

Same way, I suppose, that I've handled everything else.

I'll just muddle through.

I went to the grocery store tonight. I bought cat food and kitty litter. Weird, I was standing there in the checkout line, and it struck me that I had no idea how long it had been since I'd done something as simple as going to the store to buy groceries.

Weeks, at least. Maybe months.

For all of the recent past that I can recall, my personal shopping has been at convenience stores and gas stations. My meals have taken place at bars and restaurants or, more rarely, at someone's home.

Where has my life gone?

A few weeks ago, ActualGeorge cautioned me to not let my current situation take over my life. Well, what if it's too late? And, not only that, what if it's replaced my life?

Oh, well. It's not like my life was all that great to begin with. Maybe this new life will be better. I hope so.

Yeah, that's right, I said it. I have hope.

I bet none of you saw that coming.

Rome burns, and I stand helpless against the flames. I can do nothing to stop or even slow their progress. I could run away, but I do not. Instead, I stand my ground. I watch all of this beauty being consumed, and I try to commit every graceful line to memory, so that it will never be really lost. Not as long as I'm alive to remember.

But that is, of course, the problem.

I can not allow myself die in this blaze. Eventually, my skin blistering and my hair singeing, I will have no choice but to flee. So that I can stay alive, to remember and to mourn. So that somewhere in the world, this beauty will live on, even if it's only in my head.

Rome burns all around me. I can not allow myself to burn with it. No matter how much I want to stay here forever. No matter how much I want to die with it, my ashes intermingled.

This is silly.

It's 2:18 in the morning, as I type this sentence, and I'm glaring at my phone.

Now it's 2:19 in the morning, and I'm hitting Send/Recv on my email client.

This is so silly.

Just because I feel like we left things unsaid tonight, that doesn't mean she's going to call me or email me. Just because I think this would be the perfect time to pick up where we left off, that doesn't mean that she shares that sentiment.

Now it's 2:22 in the morning, and I'm glaring at my phone again.

Just because I've given up on sleep for the night, that doesn't mean she's lying in her bed, eyes wide open, wondering if she should contact me.

Nope, she's asleep by now. Probably dreaming.

I hope her dreams are sweet.

Now it's 2:26, and I'm checking my email again. In a couple of minutes, I'll probably go unlock my front door.

Just in case.

I remember how I survived those dark times. It wasn't luck, and it wasn't strength - it was calculated insanity.

This is from a Saturday night in September, 2005, in a blog that I kept anonymous:

You always hated sitting at the bar.

But you would sit there, if there were no other seat available.

You would sit there, if I was already there.

Tonight, I sat at the bar. Not because there were no other seats available, but because at the bar, you're not expected to join in any conversations. You're not under any pressure. You can just sit, and drink, and everyone else in the place can enjoy their Saturday without your input.

I wasn't in the mood for company tonight. I wasn't in the mood for anything, really. I just wanted to have a couple of beers. Relax a little. So I sat at the bar to ensure myself some privacy.

You know the layout of the place. As well as anybody, you know how the room is set up. If you're at the bar, your back is to the room. Your back may as well be to the rest of the world. All sorts of things can happen behind you and you'd never even know it.

In fact, if you don't bother to look beside you, you won't even know what's going on at the bar.

It's just you and your beer. And your thoughts.

---

Very rarely, I find myself in a decent mood. Not good, not bad, just decent.

I cherish these times, and I cherished tonight.

For tonight, with my back to the world, with my attention focused on the beer and the ashtray in front of me, I could let my imagination out to play for a while.

I imagined that you were sitting next to me. Just like the old days.

I could almost feel the heat from your body. Hear your voice. Feel your fingers as they touched my arm to emphasize a point.

I miss you so much.

I miss what we had. Nothing more. How could I miss the other stuff? How could I miss what never happened? People just don't understand. I loved you first as a friend. That's what I miss. If I'm sad, it's because of what I lost, not because of what I never had.

The person I was back then, the person who wrote that tortured drivel - I'm still that person. But tonight, as with so many other recent nights, I didn't need my imagination. Instead, I could simply turn my head a little bit to one side, and open my eyes, and let reality overwhelm me with its intensity. Let beauty carry me far away from the gray place that has been my home for so long. Let the simple sound of laughter vibrate my bones into putty.

It's not that I don't want to write about the joy that I sometimes feel, it's that I can't. It's simply not possible. Sufficient words do not exist.

I used to have this thing, back when MixedSignalGirl served as my muse. More than a habit, it was, but less than a rule. I'd write something, every single night. Whether good, or bad, or indifferent, I'd always write at least one entry.

I liked it, back then. I always felt like I was accomplishing something, each and every day. Even if my so-called accomplishment was nothing more than vomiting drivel onto the internet, it was still better than nothing. And it made me feel like I was better than nothing.

I'd like to be able to feel that way again.

People are getting fed up with me. Grudging respect has morphed into disdain and pity. Impatience and frustration rule every interaction. I hear it in their voices. I read it in their emails and in the comments they leave on my blogs.

I see it in their eyes.

I see it in my eyes, when I dare to look into a mirror.

It's almost time, I think.

This used to be about me. I could say whatever I wanted to say, because nobody was listening. I could feel whatever my heart compelled me to feel, because nobody cared. Not really.

But it's not about me anymore. Now that emotional and physical separation has been taken away, there are others. Wonderful, amazing others.

To most people, this has been naught but a show. A one-man play, with one improvised scene that has continued for years. Audiences have come and gone, interest has waxed and waned, and I have continued my performance, oblivious. The hero and the villain and the comic relief, all rolled into one.

When do I stop? When do I take a bow? When do allow the curtain to close?

This is coming to an end, I think.

It's almost time, I think.

Is that what I'm supposed to do? Just settle for the next girl who I like that likes me back?

Opportunities for true happiness are rare for me, and they're only going to get more scarce.

Am I supposed to just give up and give in? And put out?

I could make someone happy, and I could be happy myself. But should I settle for happy, knowing that the love of my life is a kiss away?

Is happy supposed to be good enough?

Doesn't the girl who unlocked my heart deserve special consideration? Incredible understanding? Extraordinary patience?

Shouldn't I wait forever?

I know of at least one person who's probably getting a huge kick out of all this.

Reading my blog, between the lines, the things that I cannot and will not say. Imagining the pressure building up inside me. Gleefully imagining the day that I'll explode into a million pieces.

"It's what he deserves, after all," she says to herself.

There are too many similarities. There are too many parallels.

It's like my life is preordained, nothing more than a grotesque reflection of my own immutable past. I am living the nightmare that I once caused for another. My silent screams do not awaken me, they only push me deeper into terror.

I hand out advice like acid at Woodstock, but I ignore it when it's given to me. Even when it's the same advice.

I tell myself that things will get better, even though my own experience tells me that this can only end in sorrow.

I have become the victim of my own desires. They stalk me, they toy with me, eventually they will destroy me. But not until they're tired of their games, and I fear that will be a very long time from now.

To pass the time, I surround myself with hypotheticals. What would I do, if? What should I do, when? How should I prepare, just in case?

But it's all bullshit. There's no if and there's no when and there's no just in case. There's only reality, closing in inexorably, crushing every possibility except the one that leads to an end. To our end. To my end.

I know of at least one person who's probably laughing her ass off about this. It's what I deserve, after all.