A page a day my life goes on, With each story conscientiously pretending more and more to be complete unto itself; As if each day, I'm trying harder and harder to convince myself that the story for that day is the story for that day, and that day alone. But like a chain, my life is linked together with days and those days are interdependent. I've said time and time again in a most hollow fashion that the days of change are upon us, that the season of change is approaching - But no change out of the ordinary ever-so-slight dynamic changes that envelop my life have occurred thus far.. My actions speak for my life, my eulogy will not be my hollow words I never acted on. It will be the actions I was too afraid to commit. Out of fear of acting progressively in a less-than-optimal manner.. Perhaps out of fear of stifling the potential I proclaim myself to have.. with the likely bias of ego.. I do not act at all for very long. And yeah, I've become a statistician of sorts.. tabulating my inadequacies and dissatisfaction and formulating systems to exercise them, But in reality, having the template for the person I'd like to be comforts me more than the sacrifice to become him would leave me with. I've garnered every arbitrary personality trait I can refine and to nausea pored over every outlet and every exercise to bring out the person I erroneously perceive myself to be, but all my collections mean nothing if it takes the result of the training to act as the impetus to begin my training. The eloquence of action is not a gift I've been given, and in this holy moment I realize that this is because my over-analytic personality will methodically find everything to fear and dwell on the fear itself, keeping me in the comfort zone I've adamantly put others down for dwelling upon. I've found everything to fear in this vast, chaotic, reality. I've set everything that threatens my composure and assimilated it into my personality. I've heard the songs of love, but they seemed to not be for me.. And as I've pined for my lover to reciprocate my notions of eternity, She's slipped between my fingers as my outstretched arm has lingered for a modicum of regret.. Regret in leaving the life I caused her to suffer through behind. Yes, the pain of a perceived lonely reality is certainly a pain that grows me closer to the being I'd like to be, Building me block by block to be stronger.. But if I cannot focus on the positive, I will certainly perish by my own hand within the time it takes me to recuperate from a life that offers no quarter. How easy is it to say that this life I've led is aesthetically solid, that there seems to be no good reason for leaving? But how little of my life you've even seen, And even smaller do you know, Because through your eyes is a different reality than mine, And mine is at war. What does life offer me? A love who I've tried to reconcile with, But her song is not for me.. Her happiness lies anchored to the truth. I need a reflection, a source of encouragement.. Understanding, redemption, Love as love is. Because the curiosity of oblivion charms me more than the certainty of perdition, As responsibility, action, and fear becomes a more pervasive theme in this life. There is no redemption from the life others live. There is no closure through the path of the working man. There is only settlement, a stifling of the fire within.. A remembrance, a quieting of a being that could, But never quite was. In synchronized simplicity, These insipid shadows march through the waters of life, Unaware that life isn't what they lead. Complacence their crutch, They act, react, destroy, contrive, Expect...Deny...Conspire, Connive There is no unconditional understanding, There is only hate and money. And I'm tired of living.. For hate and money.