no conception
others hate love, hate hate
ambivalent
syllables strewn about polluted landscapes too harsh for stasis
tumble from mouths and hit the ground running
words broke here, promises too
two promised but one lied
one lied in the other's place
place others before the sanctity draped upon her
upon drapes between desks and sofas
soft kisses of regret, somber frowns of disdain
you stole.

And so now I have arrived at a place I once called home. It is here that I once realized that there wasn't anyone intended for me in this place. I say this not as a martyr; I do not wish to invoke pity. I only wish to imply the truth I've known all along. Sadly, I've carried this truth with me throughout four relationships, one which yielded the consequence of my legacy, my namesake, my fate.

In each of these relationships, the most important one included, I told the most sincerest of lies, if such a thing is possible. The sincerity lied not in a lie; Rather, sincerity was nurtured by my intent. I wanted to love these women; I did, on more than one occasion. The reality, unfortunately, was that even in the presence of love did my heart still find unrest. I knew it was wrong, and still I fought.

And now I ask, if a man lies in hope of his lie coming true, is that nothing more than dreaming, or is it still, in its purest form, a lie?

eli, eli...lama sabachthani...

It seems that I now have an audience; I myself have never taken the time to look at anyone's blog, my own included. But you, dear reader, are not alone. There are more just like you, reading along by the lineful, eagerly awaiting the next post with frothing anticipation. Or at least that's how I envision it in my head. My "profile views" number has spiked this week; I can only assume that more people are reading me and growing curious as to what I am about. Or, there could be one creepy guy in Kentucky who reloads my profile over and over, never once taking heed to the words I've written. Either way, I feel good. For the first time in a while, I feel good.

Leave feedback, dear reader. If I enjoy your commentary, you might qualify to win a 100% cotton "lettuce go!" athletic tee, whose adorable logo illustrates two crispy, mouth-watering heads of iceberg lettuce sitting atop a chopping board. Racists, please indicate the epithet you'd like to proudly display: Lettuce heads are available in many different ethnicities! Choose from african lettuce, arab lettuce, or my personal favorite, semitic lettuce (lettuce heads sit atop Hitler's dinner table, with a hungry Fuhrer in the background, ready to dine!).

Down goes number four. I was left tonight, as my child was too much to handle. The mother of my child was too much to handle as well; allow me to clarify.

There came a point where I saw no reason for animosity between my son's mother and I. Somehow I just didn't have it in me to hate the woman; After all, I did love her at one point. Something tells me that I still do, which consequently might have provoked subliminal gestures whose aim was to push the new one away. I am realizing this now, as hindsight is 20/20, so the old saying goes.

I may have been a bit too premature in embarking on a new romantic endeavor, but I know I wouldn't have been able to move past the sting of separation sentenced to me by my son's mother lest I preoccupied myself with someone else. This is something rather primal, I believe- either primal or galvanized by some disturbing experience during my formative years. Either way, I could not accept the virtual disintegration of my family, the rejection from my son's mother, and the subtly compelling sense of failure brought on by the culmination of our relationship. So, as to ease the pain (READ: DISTRACT ME), I jumped from the skillet to the frying pan, so to speak. I placed myself into an entirely new relationship, one which had no nuances of the past. This has been my nature for quite some time, as I indicated earlier, when faced with rejection or failure. If red betrays me, then I shall love green- no matter how deep the love I had for red may have been, she rejected/failed me, and so I must counter the rejection/failure with an superficially undying passion for green. Rather silly, indeed.

Anyhow, in this new relationship I sought out all that was lacking in the prior one, hoping to somehow fill the void left by my son's mother's departure. At first this seemed obtainable; After the glitz and glamour had lost its charm, after the smoke had cleared, all what was left was something rather disappointing. I was still in love with red- far too wrapped up in what red was that I was not even open to what green had to offer. Quite frankly, I had little concern for what green was packing, lest it was reminiscent of the exceptional qualities that carved the letters R-E-D into the bark of my heart's proverbial elm tree. Green was not red, no matter how hard I tried to make it be so.

I just lost all ability to formulate a cogent paragraph. Deeply sad at the moment...

Once again, not to be outdone by experiences past, I find myself moronically hovering about my abode, or lack thereof, I should infer. Nothing here is reminiscent of a home; There are no comfortable nuances in the nooks that form the corners of the rooms, no lingering aromas of pleasant times spent with those I love or, to better illustrate my disposition, those who love me. There aren't any who love me, this much is certain. There is, of course, my son; he is without choice. The ostensibly arresting nature of our relationship leaves little room for the dear child to dismiss me as invalid, unwanted, nugatory. I imagine that one day he too will learn to disregard me, or regard me as something of an enigmatic clusterfuck. Only time will tell, or so they say. They, it seems, say so much, yet seldom if ever do they emerge to stake a claim in all they promulgate. Interesting scenario, indeed.

Anyhow, here is where I exist. Somewhere on a tangent of elation and misery lies this troubled soul; It appears I have fallen off the linear scale of social contentment, finding contempt better suiting for a man of my character. This is what they tell me. I wouldn't have come up with it all by myself, I assure you. No one aspires to be miserable; Every soul wandering upon this doomed terrain seeks only one thing: Understanding. We don't relate with one another for any other purpose but to be understood.

And so the million dollar question is this: What would compell you to think I'm making a solid attempt to be elusive? Why would I seek to confuse you, avoid issuing an explanation, take time out of what limited resources I have to leave you pondering the meaning behind every last move I make? Do you believe I am cognizant of this evasive nature? I am not, I assure you.

I should clarify a few things, but before I begin, this should be said: I do not operate in a dualistc manner. Simply put, objects dissected by my mind are seldom concluded to be exclusively white or definitively black. Instead, I can find the darkness present in the white and the brightness harbored by the black. Things are not so clear-cut to me; I try not to be so concrete in anything I think of, as notions constantly are subject to new interpretations and different perspectives. I am a human being, and therefore subject to change. All of god's (assuming the existence of one) creatures are subject to change, no man or woman is excluded. The difference between myself and others, I think, is that I do not fear change; I embrace it. If at one moment I enjoy dancing, and the very next I have no desire to do so, I will speak of such change, as it is in my best interest to disseminate the truisms I feel at all times. Moreover, it is important to understand that nothing ever happens without cause. There is always a catalyst behind even the slightest of changes, and even stasis, I suppose- people are compelled to remain idle if the present conidtions surrounding that stasis are conditions of comfort. I digress- there is cause behind each effect. I refer now to the dancing situation I proposed earlier. If in a moment's time I change my feelings about dance, then certainly, there must have been some event that inspired such change. Feelings that change without first being provoked are characteristic of insanity. And you, dear one, have testified to my sanity on countless occasions; I am not insane.

Have you questioned my motive in a manner not congruent with an interrogation? It is without doubt that I assert this: You have wondered why such changes have taken place, and have wondered what caused these changes. Yet you have not questioned my motives in a nuturing manner, No- you have queried me with animosity, arrogance, disrespect, contempt. And while I wish to set forth no accusatory intonation in this dissertation of sorts, I do assert that you have not provided me with a comfortable environment to voice my deepest of feelings.

This is childish, I tell myself. This whole endeavor- the smoking, particularly. To be motivated to tears over a cigarette seems beyond ridiculous, lest I was carrying a child. Since I am a man, and therefore indefinitely devoid of pregnancy, I cannot carry a child. And so what, pray tell, is so disturbing to warrant tears and departure? Yes, I understand- your feelings are as such. You feel strongly about smoking, or its absence. I will not counter; exercises in futility are a thing of the past for me.

I entertain your departure. Long before this, a vast silence hindered only by the seductive tones of a newly delivered text message, did I entertain your failure to understand, your desistance.

Perhaps fuck you was inappropriate. Perhaps I am the one who is fucked.

Circle gets a square.

What's fantastic about this site is the crucial notion that no one knows I am writing here. That isn't to imply that throngs of readers were relentlessly begging for more and more; The last two weblogs were monitored by parties staking a vested interest in my disposition, mental well-being and dedication. Here I make no qualms about writing sincerely; My name and photograph have been disassociated with this site, creating a much needed respite from the daily abuse such thorough analyzation can induce.

There is, of course, the inseperable notion that a writer needs an audience. The materialization of any thought, catechismal to self definition or hopelessly mundane, undoubtedly eludes clandestinity; conveyance carries with it the implication of understanding. I am certain that each word written has an intended reader, albeit unintentional interception and hence misinterpretation are inevitable. Still I wonder, will I compromise this, an intensive glance into the recesses of my thought, all to avenge the miscommunication that plagued what I once thought to be righteous?

Do you still think you know who I am? I'm willing to put money on the contrary; You aren't looking in the right place. I am what is colloquially known as "fucked up"; This is my little secret. If the powers that be found that out, there'd be quite a mess to clean up, and few would have the tools necessary to take on such a daunting task.

Semantic jargon, undoubtedly...

Someone close to me smells like her; I can't identify the person. Only the nuance of the scent reveals itself as the stagnant air moves about this institutionalized lecture hall. There are far too many people in this room to discern its owner, anyhow. What's more, I'm altogether certain this matters little to you, yet somehow I find myself writing concise excerpts of thought these days. There are pages upon pages piling up, and I wonder, Will anyone ever read any of this?