Slamming into walls that I've slapped together. Testing. Practicing. Staying ready. Staying patient.

How much would it cost me, I wonder, to just let them out? So many would tell me - have told me - that I have nothing to lose. Nothing left to lose.

But what would the words say? Would their screams be in joy or in sorrow or in anger? Or, perhaps, a mixture of all three? I know only that they would be loud; beyond that I cannot predict. These words, they reside in my heart, not my brain, and my heart is a mystery even to me, these days.

To be so wonderfully right, and so incredibly wrong, about the only thing that has ever mattered to me. It's a wonder that I'm not crazy. Not really crazy, I mean. Oh, I have my moments when people might fling that label at me to see if it sticks, but I know better.

Can the truth ever be crazy?

Perhaps I, too, simply landed too soon.

Sight, even colored sight, is nothing to me, in my dreams. It's no big deal at all.

But, to have a dream so powerful, so real, that I can touch it, and smell it, and taste it?

I've been dreaming for a very long time.

Jostle me, holler at me. Scream "wake up" until your lungs bleed. I never want to wake up. Never. I would rather die.

Because sometimes, maybe once in a bazillion years, a dream will come true.

I'll take my chances.

So there.

Click here!

I think that the subjects I most want to write about are the ones I've decided to leave alone. Unfortunately, those thoughts are the only ones my brain can process.

Anyway, I got a wild hair and I drove to South Carolina Thursday. I watched the moon rise over the ocean, and then a few hours later I watched the sun rise over the ocean. On Saturday, I drove back home.

Then, I got to see HatGirl at Rich O's.

The end.

I thought it was a good idea, and much more doable - I calculate: twice as doable - as the 1500 words per day that something like nanowrimo would require.

It's so tempting, to start writing regularly again. I think about it all the time. I mean, what's stopping me?

That's not very many words. It's not even close to 750 words. But, I need to stop now.

I don't know what's stopping me, but something is.

Dammit, I miss her. I'm not supposed to, but I fucking do.

So there.

Most of the time, I'm very grateful. I got to feel something that a lot of people never get to feel. And I got to be important to you, albeit for a relatively brief time. Most of the time, I know that I'll be eternally grateful for all of this. So many people are zombies, or clueless. I'm neither, and that's all been because of you.

"I don't know how," I say. "Not anymore."

"It's just like riding a bike," she says. "Just get on. It will all come back to you."

---

So tomorrow morning, I leave. In about 8.5 hours, to be precise, I leave. Again.

This time, I'm going to Las Vegas, for 6 days. It's supposed to be for a vacation. At least that's what I keep telling myself. Anything more than that will just be a bonus.

I'll go and I'll have fun and I'll celebrate my birthday and I'll spend some time with someone who actually appreciates me. As a person, and as a man.

I should be excited. I should have been chomping at the bit for a month, in anticipation of this trip. But, I'm not. And, I haven't been, and it's kinda too late to start now.

It's not that I'm dreading this trip. Nothing like that at all. It's just that I'm not nearly as excited as I should be. As I could be. As I want to be.

I'll go. And I'll have a good time. I know that I'll have a good time. And whatever happens will happen, and then, most likely, I'll come back home.

And there's the rub, I think.

No matter where I go, or how long I'm gone, the odds are very good that I'll still have to come back.

And there's no longer any reason to come back.

---

And the funny thing is, back when I was 30, I realized that I'd forgotten how to ride a bike.

You don't turn the bar to steer, you just lean. It took me a while to remember that.

I can still do it, you know. I can still let my fingers tap-tap-tap away on my keyboard and watch words appear on my screen. I'm doing it right now, actually. But these words aren't me. These words are just shadows of who and what I am. My tap-tap-tapping fingers force the words into the light, and they disappear.

Where do shadows go when the light shines?

And what's left behind, when the shadows are gone?

So what if we wonder about different things? We're still in this boat together, in a way. There is a difference, though. You can always jump ship, but I cannot. I'm the fucking captain, for better or for worse. I'll go down with this ship, or I'll keep it afloat and bring it into port. Time will tell, I guess.

I mean, you wonder about how long I can keep writing about the same old thing, the same old crap.

I, meanwhile, wonder about other things.

Like, tonight, exactly who am I even writing about?

The lying bitch who used me and then tossed me aside? Or maybe the sweet girl who felt genuine affection for me, only to have it evaporate before it could solidify? Was I a victim of indescribable cruelty, or were we victims of timing?

I wish that I knew. I really do. It would/should/could make all the difference in the world. To walk, or to run, or perhaps to stand my ground, at least a little longer...

I don't even write here anymore. Not because I don't need to write, or even because I don't want to write. I don't write because, what would I say? What good would it do? What would be the point?

I constantly look for the words to say to make everything right. I've been looking for so long. I'm convinced that the words exist. Such is my delusion, perhaps, but also such is my salvation.

I'm still met with disbelief, after all this time - and I meet it with my own disbelief.

Excuses after excuses, but never a reason.

Unnecessary.

Did I need a reason?

Nope.

So why should I expect one in return?

Answer: I shouldn't.

But, I do.

Something that I can believe. Something that's not clearly made-up bullshit. Something that's more than just an excuse.

Dammit.

So there.

It was Wednesday, I think. I was sitting in the throne at Rich O's. Or somebody was sitting there. I'm not convinced that it was me, despite numerous testimonies.

It was like one of those dreams. You're at school and everything is cool and then you notice that you're not wearing any pants.

I'd definitely forgotten something. Where was it? What was it?

Then, Thursday night, it felt like I had an itch. One I couldn't scratch. Not one of those annoying itches in the middle of your back that you can't reach, but deeper. Under the skin. In my heart or my brain or my soul - I couldn't pin it down. It was an irritating itch, but it wasn't unbearable.

Dammit, it should have been unbearable.

I'm not really sure what's happening.

HatGirl thinks I'm being stoic. But it's not that. It's something else. I'm something else.

Tonight was another weird night. I knew exactly what I was supposed to be feeling, but I couldn't quite get there. I was a needle on a record player, running parallel to the music but never quite in the right groove.

I hope I haven't become a pod person. I hate pod people.

It's not like when I go to most cities, and everyone looks familiar, like I might have seen them before. It's also not like the last time I was in Las Vegas, when every girl I saw reminded me of either LaptopGirl or Hatgirl. Nope, up here in Bellingham, everybody looks like a specific person that I know.

All hyperbole aside, it's a phenomenon that's happening often enough that it freaks me out a little.

Up here, I've had a beer with a girl who looked so much like SassyGirl that I almost gave her a hug when she sat next to me. I've gotten my hairs cut by a girl I dated in high school. I've seen MusicalYuppieDude lose badly at poker. I've seen CrazyGirl get shitfaced enough to make moves on TallLady. I've seen my sister Dina having dinner at Olive Garden. I go to a gas station in the mornings and buy a Diet Pepsi from the fucking dipshit, of all people.

And, of course, I've seen HatGirl and LaptopGirl about twenty times each.

I could go on and on. There have probably been fifty instances of these things.

Sometimes, it's felt like I wasn't gone at all.

See, when I left for Washington in November, I suspected that it would be tough. But Saturday night, as I prepared to return for another month, I knew what it meant. There was no doubt. No hope.

But then there was a screw-up, and I didn't have to leave Sunday morning after all. I got myself an extra day. Not that I did much with it. Sat around dreading the feeling of isolation that was waiting for me in Bellingham, as far away from here as you can get, and still be in the continental U.S.

I leave for the airport in an hour and a half. Then ninety minutes to Chicago, then four hours to Seattle, then two hours driving to Bellingham. Each minute and each mile it will get worse and worse.

People try to help. They really do, and I really appreciate it, sometimes. They tell me to use my trip as an opportunity. To get better. To realize that I can, once again, enjoy my own company. But they don't understand. I don't want help. I need to miss them. I need to have a reason to come back, to get up in the mornings, to keep breathing.

People don't want me to be sad anymore. I don't know if it's so they'll feel more comfortable around me, or because of guilt, or out of genuine concern. It's probably a combination of those things. But they don't understand. It's not about the sadness. It's about the love. The sadness is a side-effect, thrust upon me by these circumstances. But it's not what's important. It's not what I cling to.

To get rid of the sadness, I'd have to get rid of the love. And that can't be done. Not by me. Every time I've tried, it's felt like I was putting a gun to my head, about to pull the trigger. This is so much a part of me, and has been for so long, that to end it would be to end everything that matters to me. It would be suicide.

Now, I fully support a person's right to end their own life on their own terms, but it's not for me. So I can't. I won't. Instead, I'll suffer. It's what I do. It's all I can do, for now. For the next month.

After that, who knows?

It's always the same thing. Every year on this date, I try to do one thing and I end up doing another. I try to reflect on the year's events, and I end up having a séance of sorts.

Well, except for last year. But last year was special.

Tonight, I spent midnight alone. After last year, I really and truly thought that I would never be alone again on New Year's Eve. But, I was.

Oh, well, right?

This year, instead of the usual fifteen minutes, I was outside for an hour and a half. Well, it was an eventful year, you might think.

Wrong.

Not about 2009 being eventful, but about that having anything at all to do with my being outside for seventy-five minutes longer than usual.

What went wrong? What went right? What progress was made? What setbacks were encountered?

How can I do better, in 2010? How can I be worthy, in 2010?

Hi! How are you? I miss you.

The year 2009 saw lots of things. But they're all irrelevant. All except for one thing. One person.

I didn't want to have a séance this year. But, I expected it to happen.

And, it did.

Funny, right?