potatochief

Tonight I type away feeling empty and disconnected, foreign to any emotion I've felt before. This feeling is unique in a sense that, it doesn't hit as hard as say, anguish or regret. It doesn't pull the edge of the lips ever so downward like grief or hopelessness. But it has the traits of tugging, grabbing, pulling downing feeling of hopelessness. It's there, but not quite to be labeled as that. It's the end of a dizzying, energy sapping but highly productive week for me. Thrown in it are cameos of an out-of-place muse that playfully and refreshingly inspires me to power through what could have been a purely stress laden minefield of a week. Yet it doesn't end so well. This playfulness is tethered with irresponsibility and disregard. It's reminds me a beautiful car riddled with unending mechanical faults. The shady-ness of this story's setting. The rise and fall of of it's unfolding events. The high and the crash of intertwined emotions. This...

Don't linger, don't make me feel. I don't have the luxury of time or attention for anyone special, let alone anyone that distracts me from my mind's lofty goals and ambitions. Your presence excites the old me. Your company inspires the hopeful me. The me who risked it all. The me that still continues to try to pick up and piece together something that won't ever be fixed again. I don't want your affection. It clouds my better judgment. I can't give you quality time, as I have to be somewhere else doing something productive. Your unrelenting persistence is breaking walls that have been carefully and meticulously crafted and built, walls that were designed to keep your kind as far away from the old me, still picking up and trying to mend what cannot be fixed. What do you want from me? My commitment? That I take care of you? That I'd do my best, my hardest, everything in my power to make it work? Right now? We? Even if explained to you countless ti...