Do you ever see your life as a convoluted compendium of conflicting chapters with knarled older sections yellowed with time and regret interspersed with recent additions of uncharacteristic joy that render them inert, albeit fleetingly? At times it makes little sense to even its author with all the majesty of d**kinsonian (thanks for the consorship, Altsvene) novel or the romantic appeal of a Jane Austen work yet, in equal measure to morbid pleasure, the lonesome dismay of Edgard Allen Poe or the existential dread of a Lovecraftian volume.
In essence, I'm complicated and as a 23 y.o., confused and certain. I crave an equal of mutual understanding and daydream of how I might pry her from her own despair (every man dreams of being a knight, some in white, this one in ebony) all the while incapable of trusting himself to be more companion to her than creature to himself.
I'm called a kind man by friends and vain man by acquaintances spiteful and lovers sp**ned. I have a past and with such burden was once told, a girlfriend gone, that for all of my merits and our affections shared, "I cannot be with someone that hates himself more than he loves me." I've found little more light since.
I'd do everything in the world to reciprocate the kind kiss and warm embrace of someone that held me as I them but...cannot guarantee the welling blackness of bitter dregs surfacing from horrors past would not spill into their cup, too. Misery loves company, a fellow with whom to share the dank and immemorial nitre of its entombed heart...even if such relations swallow both; I am no different.
