whites of the eyes

mislead is a word best kept closed until you're really sure. compared to this, nothing else is really worth toying with the idea of the end. they're not worth it and i know you know that we both know it. i don't know if it's fear that made them odd or fear that made them stay but who am i to judge it when i don't even really understand it myself. sometimes i think i'm the only one that ever gets left standing alone.. and for what. nothing, really. finding families before you find what you're looking for. finding out what it is to figure out that most of these people are too wrapped up in their own ideas of what they should be... what they are... to really grasp and sense solidarity or genuine thought or just realness in any way. and i just can't care for any of it. i don't care for any of it. i guess i can't care to care about the issues they deem respectable or probable or potent. not the first time i've reached this same kind of level of discontent. the kinds of words on strings that happen in just the right way and order to indirectly punch you in the face. these nights... they do something to you. same with these rooms and ideas and faces and hands and who even knows what else anymore? when someone's breathing too loud and you notice. when you can't fall asleep because something's just wrong and you can't put your finger on it. these days i don't except you to respond or really give a shit in any way because why should i? i'm sad i'm happy i'm moving i'm jealous i'm tired i'm rich i'm thirsty for something that'll give everything a little more that an ounce in meaning. and a small ounce at that.