IDTICTYEIIWT.

[Saint Saccharine]

That's short for, I don't think I could tell you even if I wanted to. Considering the mess of a man that I am, the lack of plans that I have, and the solitude I've found myself barreling toward at an almost alarming rate, I figure it wouldn't be a bad idea to get some of those thoughts onto paper (read: screen), and out of my head, where their ghosts will reside, but at least they'll be taking up less space. More than anything, this is my "Screaming into the void" moment, so I don't expect it to be read, dissected, digested, or understood; and frankly, I don't need it to be. I don't even know if I want it to be. I could have easily put this somewhere that nobody would read, I could have put it into one of the boxes in the closet beneath the stairs, or in the drawer of my nightstand, beside the pictures I don't look at any more, and the cards I haven't read in years, but there's something that comes with shutting these thoughts away that simply doesn't sit right with me. I don't need them to be heard, but I need them to have the chance to be heard. The opportunity. It's like buying a lottery ticket, which is something I do every week without fail, much to my family's (and my own, if I'm being perfectly honest) dismay. I don't need to win, as I've found comfort in life, and security, but I need the opportunity.

Or maybe I'm just addicted. Who knows?

Either way, there's plenty that needs to be said, and plenty that will be said. I tend to be quiet when it comes to verbal expression, but I never shut the fuck up when it comes to writing. I tend to ramble, and anyone who's spoken (read: written) to me more than once will know that. I thank those who have stuck around, and enjoyed the time I've spent with them in spite of that, and to those who've turned to strangers in part to it, I owe you thanks as well. Just as much, if not more. Part of finding out who I am has been realizing that I can't, and won't, please everyone. And, at the age of 26, I like to think I know myself pretty well. There are still things to figure out, things to understand, things to learn, but I like to think I know me a little bit better than I did yesterday. That'll continue, day after day, week after week, month after month, so on and so forth, until I'm fully gray and too hobbled to walk. And even then, I think I'll continue to learn.

There's never an end to learning when it comes to yourself.

As for what I don't think I could tell you, even if I wanted to? There's a million and ten things, if we're being honest. I won't make excuses, and I won't take away from what I've done, because there are times where I've been a truly shit person. I realize that, and I don't think that's something you can take back. You can apologize, you can atone, you can move on, but you can't take it back. I don't think I could tell you that I miss you, even if I wanted to. I think those words would taste far too bitter on my tongue. They would hurt. They would feel sharp, and jagged. They're meant to be sweet, wonderfully so, but they've burned my tongue for years now.

I can't help but wonder if they'd burn yours too.

 

[Saint Saccharine]

On occasion, I get the urge to return to an addiction I've long since managed to kick. It's a nagging pang in the back of my neck, the kind that flutters lights behind your eyes when you sleep, and dances on the back of your tongue. It's the same type of twitch that you feel in all the right ways in all the wrong times. Such a horrible pain in the ass. But, it's a mistake I've made a thousand times or more, and I'm sure it's a mistake I'll make a million times more. But, at what point does it stop being a mistake, and start being purposeful destruction? It's like taking a hammer to a window. You know what you're doing. The glass shatters, and you're left in the wreckage of your own decision. Or, it's like forcing a metaphor into a situation where it doesn't necessarily apply. You're still left holding the hammer for some reason. Always holding the hammer.

Maybe in a different time, a different place, a different world, where we wore different skins, called each other different names, laughed at different jokes, whispered different things, walked different paths, arrived at the same place all the same; maybe it would be different then. Probably not. But it's fun to think about, right?

I think a lot about just running. Changing my name, shirking my responsibilities, letting everyone I know down, and becoming someone else, somewhere far, far, far away. It's a big, big, big world out there, and I feel like it's almost a shame to let life pass you by without changing yourself at least once. Go somewhere new, become someone else, write your own story, lie to everyone's face, embrace change.

Fight that urge.

Because no matter how far I run, no matter how many people I meet, no matter how close to the edge I step, no matter, no matter, no matter, it doesn't matter. It's not something that ever mattered, and to a degree, I'm okay with that. To a degree, I'm okay with your presence in my mind. I'm okay with the small spot in my head that you occupy. I'm okay with your taste on the back of my tongue. I'm okay with your scent on the wind.

Most of the time at least.

Most of the time.