God, I hope I'm still too young to fail. But my, how the work's taken it's toll. There's more hairs falling, pulled out by my fingers, more now than ever. I find myself always far-sighted, looking back, trying to put the past into words. Words of meaning, something more than just the half-crazed slaving away of print on paper. Not so much of a desperate plea to give them direction, but rather point myself, my thoughts down a plausible path. Because I hate standing still and waiting to decide. I'm lost at an impasse. A Parisian intersection with twelve choices jutting out in all directions.
Always looking back. Always being pulled forward. Nothing's holding me in the now anymore. I miss being in love. That feeling of, well, it was mostly pain I suppose because I was always so wretched with it. So inopportune and optimistic, I was. But it was that feeling, that longing to hold that was my anchor. It's gone now and I'm drifting out to sea.
