I didn’t really care anymore. Love rejected, so I just kept drinking like Bukowski. I shared his sentiment. Sometimes life was better goggled up; most of the time. I was on top of the world. King, or some shit. Made her happy, but she wouldn’t fuck you. She was into hobbits or whatever. What kind of a friend didn’t express physically? The shitty kind I speculated.

You see, whenever you have feelings for a girl and you share it, she just takes it and spits it right in your face. You can’t dwell on your feelings. Just got to let them fade past and wash over you. Take what you can get, but no one is truly happy.

Is this what the stock of life boils down to? A myriad of unsatisfied yokels kissing each other off in hopes of avoiding the inner divine equating to insanity? But no one can define. What is insane is what is not sane, but what is sanity? How can we know the innards of the mind? The soul? The anima…patiently waits in the depths of time, but the here and now is relentless. Never seizing. But we seem to have it all backwards. Fucking idiots. God damn sheep. Dumb, blind, covered in our own filth. Our own shit. Fuck. Fucking Ernest dead by his own hands, runs in the family; genes I heard someone say. To Valhalla and ever onward. Infinitely benign. Shit. Peer into my soul and take me away from myself.

One beer, two beers, four beers down. Stop. Being. My Mother. I’m not, I’m your wife! Well you’re being a bitchy mother and I hate it, you barren bitch-I don’t mean it, but whatever. You can’t comprehend. Don’t understand. It’s like my heart has sank deep within the folds of my being. An overwhelming amor. I long to express. A courtly torture, more like, my fair lady. To embrace her form. To witness the mystery locked within. She is a poetry unto me, but she is also absolved from me. A fine wine coupled with her charm.

And so, I regret to feel, because my expression goes unreceived. There is never any reciprocity and when I do feel I am tormented. The suicidal muse arises from the depths, calling me home to the sea. Teary eyed. I take up my rifle and send her away, far, far, away from me. I can’t take it. I can’t shake it. No, no, no. I cannot escape the feelings overbearing on me. Shredding what remains of me with each passing day.

But love always came late-after obligation had took to stand fast. If it was anyone but you she said. Whatever that means. She made me feel, forced me to see and to breathe. Ignited my passion to live and to be-with her. But she was forever out of reach. My tragedy. Always the same. Repeating itself like the rerun of a terrible sitcom with me at the helm of a rudderless ship lost at sea, forgotten by all. I was always too afraid. Too noivous to reach out and offer my expressions. How I truly felt. I was afraid of feeling. Fearful of what that might mean. Maybe that’s why I suffered the ire of reason and logic so very long. Attempting to hide from my humanity.

It still stands. I loved that girl. Just wanted to hold her close. I wish I had found her sooner in life. That I might never be alone. But she was dying and I was obliged to a prior engagement, or so I felt. The Parade. Alas. Love always came late for me. Long after obligations took root, and it killed me, tortured me. I just longed to embrace her—the siren upon the sea. And yet, it was all a lie.