Synedoche.
For the once all of you who I once wrote about, you are no longer here. All your shadows have played out and danced passed in the flickering of my screen. I read your typed words of intrigue and I passed on your meanings to the forefront of my thoughts. It has all been kept for too long. Now, when I wander to and fro across coast to coast of this state I realize I am not a rooted theme but a paradox of unruly states. It is fine. For now when I realize that I cannot settle down I am treated with dreams of things I know I would hate. Things I would hate for myself- me, to do. I used to dream of complex situations for a future that in the end all equaled happiness. I used to realize that I couldn't own up to it because I doubted myself too much. It is a complicated thing to accept at a young age; the fact that I could not be enough. I wrote about it all, here, and I leave it all here. Finally the periphrasis doesn't count, that which this has all been. The parts that equal the whole, this. It all plays on to an end. I breath to exhale and I experience to reflect. I would walk around campus thinking that I could not be a writer because I could not live the writers life style- to be a loner and to commit myself to being that. To experience but always be out of the experience. It is fine; now. I realize it all as I sit here and by the morning I will forget everything. I started everything in an effort to be reflected upon as interesting in the eyes of so many. I used to try very hard to impress all of you. I knew and still know that I was a crutch to lean back on; you never expected me to have those experiences so you could turn to me with them. You knew. I realized and still do that I changed over night to a more introverted person which meant my exterior would become a wanderer which can so easily lead to follower. I followed. And I was fine with that. Not necessarily fine at the time but I learned to adapt. I forgot my old self until I was forced the time to reflect. I can never relate to any of you for you never experienced it. And that is true for all things: you can never fully relate to those who have not been through what you have. You can like them, appreciate them, but you cannot relate to them. You can not have the full respect for that person or deep level of understanding for the very basic fact that their experiences are different. It is not negative, it just is. And I am fine with that, now, too. I will never be able to understand my experiences. Time can leave space for manipulation of the distance between now and then. There can be what I think happened, what happened, what I would like to have happened, and the difference of it all. The more time that goes by the more hazy the truth will be. Or more revealed- the difference is hard to see.It's all a caesura, in real life that is. A caesura from what though? From these words? From all words? Or are all breaks just prolonged endings? I fear my worst self revealed and lying naked on the public floor. I cannot take a break from my fears so I sit with them, or lay with them, but they still always follow me. I pray for them to transform themselves out of my mind. I pray for them to hold no truth. Atheists- all Atheists- believe in something. I believe in that. When I leave again I hope for not perfection but a natural state with him. I have learned to expect so much of so little. I guess that is fine, right? I think my problem is, is that I am my problem. I don't know what I want but I want him to know for me. I've grown up, or settled, or just lived for a prolonged period of time. All these words have become a verisimilitude of nothing. Of space and time and how nothing can become so beautifully something. How a diary can become a book of prose and poetry words lingering. It's a truth of air.
It's an illusion, you all.

Did you see me out there, waiting? And you- you- who could have said me. Looking at how good your hands looked grasped in prayer, than at the words you speak. Oh to sea the things that over their could bring. You are my trouble. I leave again and the words fall flat to the floor- scattered. Nothing that I could try to put together could make things right. I feel an emptiness. A fester of doubt invades all feelings of the heart and breathes there forever. I am sorry. I am so sorry for who I am. All I could ever hope for is nature- whom we all blame- to invade our essences and make it all right. All natural. You and me intertwined like vines, growing and feeding off what each other says. I could drown in your presence.
If Jesus hadn't frozen out in the street could you still believe in me? When you stepped over him, on your way back from the bar, if you hadnt- would you still have faith in me? Could I have stopped you from all those horrible mistakes to bring you back to the boy I once knew? Nothing can save you this time.
And I pray.