I heard about this open-mic thingy the other night. I didn't go, but I heard about it. One of the things I heard was that there were some "real" writers there.

I like to imagine myself as a real writer. Not now, I mean, but someday, in the future, maybe. I think I have it in me; that combination of passion and creativity that's so necessary. I've certainly got the passion, and the creativity is in here somewhere, rattling around in my head like a quarter you've left in your jeans when you did a load of laundry. Now it's in the dryer, banging and clanging.

Trying to take the chaos inside me and distill it into something that's both meaningful and interesting. It's tough sometimes, impossible at other times, but it feels downright effortless on nights like tonight. Nights when I've fucked up and it feel like this keyboard is absolutely all I have left. Every part of me, every iota of anything and everything that makes me who I am and how I am - all escaping by the only path available, flowing down through my fingers and onto my keyboard.

It has to escape. It fucking has to, because it's unbearable to be inside my head on nights like tonight.

Nights when I've fucked up.

Nights when I'm sorry.

Anyway, I know that this entry sucks. Just because something seems easy doesn't mean that it's any good.

One time, two times, three times, four times.

I wonder if there will be any more times.

Because that would be cool.

An annoying pattern is emerging.

I need to do something about it, since it's my fault.

---

Hey, you.

Just think. That's really all I ask.

And, if you keep coming up with the wrong answer, think some more.

I'll let you know when you're finally right, if everyone else in your life doesn't beat me to it.

---

It's March now. Cold weather, please go away. Okay thanks.

---

I didn't bring it up, but now that it's been brought up, several times, I'm having a tough time not thinking about it. This is one of the few things about this mess that is not my fault.

So there.

---

I think that's it for now. Funny, I thought there would be more.

I'm in here somewhere. I just know I am. I can almost, when it's late at night and I'm all alone, I can almost sense my presence. A flicker crosses my mind, but I notice it an instant too late.

I am, as I've said so often lately, fucked.

Dammit, I know I'm in here somewhere.

I defy anyone to live with this much pain for this long. I have no idea how I'm coping at all, if this can even be called coping.

I know what needs to be done, but I cannot do it. Time and time again, I turn around and I take one or two or three purposeful strides, and then my legs betray me. They turn to rubber, and I cannot take another step.

Efforts to push me away have seemed to be tests more than anything else. Tests for which I'm ill-prepared, and for which the results are beyond my control. Am I passing? Am I failing?

Lately there have been attempts to pull me away from this mess. To save me. Offers of something different, perhaps even better. I resist these attempts, though I no longer know why. I mean, why fear the unknown when the known is so terrifying?

I am most definitely fucked.

Problem is, I fucking hate being lied to.

And so, since I know that the answer will be a lie, I can't even ask the damn question.

And so, it will look like I don't even care.