if my life were a novel, would anyone make it past page two?

sometimes, i feel like i can change the world. other times, i feel that i am powerless to change anything at all, even myself.

sometimes, i want to be a part of something bigger than myself, to bask in the radiance of other amazing people. other times, i just want to hide away forever and let the world forget about me.

sometimes, i feel the boundless freedom of being alone. other times, i feel incredibly, terribly lonely.

sometimes, i want to love. other times, i wish i didn't.

sometimes, i want to say something and reach out my hand, knowing it could be amazing. other times, i keep my mouth shut and let opportunities slip away, knowing i may have avoided trouble.

sometimes i hope, while other times, i despair.

there is no right or wrong about hoping or despairing, nor in the circumstances which lead me to hope or despair. things just are as they are, without a care to what i might want.
it is the wanting that disturbs, not the subject of the want. it is the wanting that creates attachments of all forms, that bind me and blind me to the possibilities all around.
i shall not ask for that which is not freely given.
or rather, i may ask, but i never expect anything, not even an answer.

i am quite used to unanswered questions; it is my life's story.

and so it goes, another day, another chapter, another subplot to the grand, undramatic drama that is me.

sometimes, i am okay with myself.
other times, i am not.
sometimes, i want to be much more.
other times, i want to be much, much less...





"sometimes suicide is a silky soft concept i like to wrap around myself and try on for size"

-christian lane alexander, my diaryland hero (whom i sincerely hope takes no offense from me quoting these particular words)