it begins with an open browser tab & a text box, accessed whilst in an inadvisable condition to be operating such incendiary technology. it intends to be a confession of sorts, a catharsis, release. it hopes to be inappropriate in a way appealing enough to be its own excuse. it is, as we all are, doomed to end with far too many things unsaid & undone, interrupted as it were, in the midst of exactly what it was meant for.

it is a pink floyd on the headphones, second giant travel cup of wine, two hours of sleep type of disaster looking for a place to preserve itself in the most ephemeral of mediums imaginable, short of imagination itself. it may &/or may not make any sense whatsoever, but its intentions are pure i assure you. it means to express itself, in absence of the understanding of what *it* is.

waiting is.

i am almost resigned to this & yet true resignation is a holier grail than i will ever finally find. is it sad or triumphant that i fail to abandon these dreams? it is. almost.

waiting is.

it’s just there is this one thing, this one love. neither of which exist therefore this waiting makes almost no sense at all. almost. & yet.

& yet. regret regret is what makes the least sense, what with no reason to bother with it, you know how that goes don’t you? oh wait. you don’t, do you? right. i forgot.

i forget stuff. not the stuff it would benefit me forgetting, just everything else. what remains is me facing what is left of & for me.

waiting is not going to solve anything. it is what it is, impossible. & i accept this, except when i don’t.

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