So here I am again; it's 4 in the morning and in the last six years I don't feel I've gotten any older.
My soul was ever aged beyond it's years but in reality I'm sitting here alone on the bed, laptop keeping me warm, insomnia teasing out the tangles of poetry in me... and I could be 17 again.
So what's changed? The city, the calendar, the world.
Have I?
Am I still scarred the same, or have I overwritten myself with a new lattice of pains?
Eventually wounds fade into us, become a part, pale and familiar, until new lines are drawn.

I used to have eloquence at my fingertips, on the dark breath of a star spangled night, only a moments reach away... and now I am in the fog, deafened by the muted, false calm.
I have tried to be a good person, but I am a child manipulating the dream without understanding the consequences of creating a fantasy from which one must awake.
I have so much love in my heart that it beats out of time with life. I care SO much that it hurts me beyond expression. I am in a pain that cannot be relieved, there is no cure, no temporary release - only more suffering as I become increasingly away of how impotent my attempts to channel that in any positive way have been.

I am drawn to the dark characters, the damaged souls and broken hearts of fiction; they become my shadow self, my twin brothers, my animus, the reflection in obsidian. I feel empathy from understanding and a tearing discontent that in life I cannot bend that to the shape of selflessness.
I am distraught.
I am selfish.
I stood at the foot of the grave of a woman who truly changed her world, knowing that our stories could be so similar if I could do the good I owe.
It would not be from kindness, and therefore would not be of equal value. The worth of a penance is far less that the virtue of a pure soul. I have to live with knowing I will never do anything for the intrinsic good of the act itself, but for a twisted self centred reason.
Must I live my entire life medicated to make bearable the pain I have caused through over analysis and dissection of myself?

I like to write on the grey surface again. I am glad this has been changed back. Grey is the mourning dove, the morning mist, the uncertain and the neutral. Baseline. It is the choice between light and dark. It is where we live when our loyalties to the courts of day and night are tested, it is home to the wandering children of the half life. Grey is less than despair, the insubstantial firmament separating me from the Abyss, and the cloying smog that blinds me from freedom. I am safe here, because I am lost. And I don't know if I want to stay here. If I cannot be saved, if I cannot love with all of me, and be loved with a whole heart, then why should I wish to be found?