Recount: On guard! Mind your steps through the hazy truth of this moment's skyline. To forget is to forgive the regret of a half lived life, an end to its own life and taking the rest of mine in the process. Tell me, am I there yet? If I said I loved you, would you know what I meant when I said goodbye? To describe is to inscribe the words upon the air between myself and you. The grass isn't very green no matter where you look and I assume the farther you go the more dead it gets, but that‘s only the assumption I make as I close my eyes to the beautiful emptiness of it all. There's a white fence but does it fence us in, or out? There's a center here somewhere but I can't get in to it. In fact, the truth is, of course that I know not what I say quite yet. To get somewhere, or anywhere really, you have to know your destination ahead of time. For the journey to be complete you need to have gone on a journey in the first place, otherwise all places are just steps. They're just places, not ends. There can be more than one end, though. There is more than one path through any given forest - or is there? Oh sure, we like to think we have choices but you always only choose one thing every moment, so really who knows if the other choices are simply illusions? They could be. Has anyone ever tried more than one? No. Shattered by the dreams that plague me and make me believe the real is imagined or the imagined real. A name, a face, but they actually don't go together. But they did and it made perfect sense at the time. But that’s just it, it’s only at the time. Afterward, all sense is lost. Tears are magnified and increased in dreams, but crying is a waste of time - or maybe not. With every passing moment the flowers I picked grow more beautiful, more ugly, more dead, more creative. This creative edge I seem to have occasionally is especially dull lately. It's like the act of being sick. It comes in flows that you can't control or stop, but there's long periods of perfect health in between. Could I ever bring it about myself…? the sickness? The creativity? No one's perfect. Maybe that's a sad way of looking at it, but that's how I am right now. Maybe I'll tilt my head to try and gain a new perspective, but it kind of hurts to think about for very long and eventually there will be conversation on it on my part, I'm sure, but I don't know if I'm such a fan of that. I mean, what do I really have to say anymore? I take the time to lie my way out of situations, and it works so you think I'd take that time I earned to do the right thing but so far not so much. How funny is that? I'm a horrible hostile just plain mean person sometimes. Pretty much. “Stream of thought,” they say but that's actually not it right now, it's more like a stream of words, because honestly some of this stuff has no thought behind it. Then again, I guess I'm not writing anything like a book so it's different anyway. It’s not a perfect stream. For that you need one in an untouched forest, where I rarely bring others. I hold myself up so high sometimes. I’m insecure about everything and can't even function sometimes because the lack of security makes me think everyone hates me or is mad at me when really I'm basing it on nothing except that I'd hate myself if I were them. Is it true that everyone's after love? Does everyone want it? I think so. I know I did and do and have and believe me I'm very lucky in this regaurd. I'm one of the luckiest people in the world. And you really all should envy me. I'm ready for spring. Or fall. They're both motions, but opposites. Awesome.