Very Tired.

I'm used to it. And so it is. Regretfully so (and fortunately and happily so), I do consider myself incapable of closeness (of any sorts). It all reminds me of the same circumstances, and I'd rather not revisit.

It is with that, I realize, I ought not to have extended (and casually so, with that) such careless an invitation. A most injudicious decision. One should never (and never strive to) be so happy, so excessively happy. We never are.

Maybe.

Today, sometime between the hours of eight and eleven forty-five, I indulged in the last few words of a stunningly brilliant comedy/play. Stunningly brilliant. Insurmountable wit. Ingenious plot. If only bunburying were an acceptable profession nowadays.

Well, now I am sad. Very sad, indeed.

Satisfied.

That was anything but a statement.

I'm not certain of all too many things. But I'm too certain about nothing at all. If nothing is anything? If nothing is something, anyway?

I'd like to think myself capable. I'd like to think myself liberated. Liberated, I suppose, from tendency. Perhaps I'm asking too much, though I believe I've asked myself of too little. It's not, necessarily, that I'm opposed.

But I want control. I'd like to think myself capable. Capable of doing all but appealing to the stratum of the merely physical. Perhaps I am making a mistake. Perhaps I am asking too much of what is after all, merely, a human calling. Perhaps I'm not asking too much but, in all, demanding too much, stretching too far. If I so much as deprive myself of closeness and warmth, then I suppose I'll live with it, for now.

Is it too much a sacrifice to be certain?

The things I do.

I'm incredibly tired. I'm not sure what to say. I'm not sure I want to say anything. I'm not sure I have anything to say. And that is all that I have to say.

The halo effect. And mere exposure and primacy. Attributions. Now I know why. But, only, maybe.

I hate you. I sound like an overbearing what's it called. But I hate you, I do. And I hate that you remind me of so many things I want to remember, if the spare aspects were not associated with you. Because I hate you.

I'm still incredibly tired. And I have nothing to say. It just doesn't get any better, does it? And that is all.

Love "is an unnecessary diversion." I've been spelling unnecessary wrong all this time, I've just realized. Oh, technology. But love means nothing. Nothing does, anyway? And I don't mind.

Why do I bother.