Okay, I'm in a writey mood tonight. Wonders never cease, huh?

Problem is, I'm also a little bit drunk tonight. A couple glasses of Fat Tire (2246) and a bottle of The Reverend (782) will do that to a person, especially if that person is me.

Sometimes I really hate being such a lightweight.

Anyway...

Looking for inspiration, I did a search of my old blog entries. Bonus points will ensue for anyone who can deduce the two-word phrase for which I searched. Not that it matters. It's all the same. It's always been the same, for six and a half years. And, I fear, it will continue to be the same, for as long as it takes. Either long enough for me to stop breathing, or long enough for me to stop waiting.

Here's one from July 2009. I could have written it yesterday, and it would have fit perfectly:

It's not stupidity that keeps me here. Nope, it's knowing the truth, even when everyone else fails to see it. It's speaking the truth, and living the truth, and waiting for beautiful eyes to open so that I'm not alone any more.

It's not cowardice that keeps me from turning away and facing the unknown. It's that the unknown holds no appeal for me. And why should it? The appeal of the unknown lies in its potential, and I've already found all of the potential I could ever want.

It's not weakness. I'm not here because I'm weak, but because I'm strong. I have persevered when others would have given up. I have pushed forward when others would have faltered. Time after time I have exposed my heart to the daggers of reality and, though I've been stabbed, I've never given up and I've never cowered and I've never ran away. I've been right here all this time.

And it's not insanity. Step inside me and look through my eyes. See what I see. Feel with my heart the things that I feel. Use my lips to speak, and use my ears to listen to the words fighting to be heard. Reach out with my hand and touch what I touch, and feel the tingling of a million touches yet to come. This is all very real.

It's not stupidity, or cowardice, or weakness, or insanity. It's something else.

I know what it is. So far, I'm the only one who really knows what it is. What it's like. What it means. What it portends.

So far, I'm the only one who really gets it.

But eventually, there'll be another.

Beautiful eyes will open, and they will see me, right where I've been all along.

I can forgive a lot of things. I have forgiven a lot of things. More than anyone else would have forgiven.

But this?

How the fuck am I supposed to forgive this and still manage to maintain some semblance of dignity?

I am not a doormat, though I've played one in the past, when it seemed that a doormat was needed.

I did what was necessary, or at least what seemed necessary at the time, not because of what those things were, but because of who needed them.

Because of who needed me.

And I liked it. Loved it, even. I lived for those opportunities.

And now?

Summary dismissal.

Of whatever the fuck you want to call it. Friendship? Something more? Something less? Something else?

I don't care what you call it. Just pick something. And don't say nothing. Don't you fucking dare say nothing.

We may no longer exist, but I still do exist. Barely.

And what's left of me deserves more than this. Even the worst person on Earth would deserve more than this.

More than nothing.

What's the point of another 45 years?

This question is both serious and rhetorical.

I don't know the answer. I used to know it, but I was wrong.

I was so fucking wrong. I bet my life, and I lost the bet. I risked it all, and I lost it all.

So what's the point of another 45 years? What's the point, dare I ask, of another 45 seconds?

So, in his mind, did we lie to him as he wept from the thought of missing me? Did we only say what needed to be said, regardless of the truth, to ease his pain? Did we pat him on the back, and tell him what he wanted to hear, only so that we ourselves would feel better?

Or is he smart enough and mature enough to know that sometimes things aren't black and white? That one day's truth can be another day's mistake? That good intentions are not always enough?

I hope for the latter, yet fear the former with all my heart.

The words are still there, you know. Inside me. Straining to be set free. Yearning to serve their only purpose. To be heard.

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.

As I've written before, I've heard that most people don't dream in color. As I've written before, I do dream in color, and I always have as far as I can tell.

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.

I tried to get this to embed, but it didn't work. It's still hilarious even if you have to click:

Click here!

I was going to write about my trip to South Carolina, but I seem to have lost the ability to write anything interesting.

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 ran across this thing last night; it was a site about writing. It was a site about writing 750 words every day, to be precise. Supposed to be good for the soul and stuff.

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.

So, this is what I wrote. One of the last things I wrote, will ever write. I'm not in the habit of making private conversations public, but I'm going to make an exception in this case. I hope that those of you who might choose to be cruel will read this, and know that it's the truth, and know that there is no cause for cruelty.

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.