coming clean

So I came clean and told Duffy about yesterday's little emotional heroin.


It's not that I'm lonely, far from it. It's not that I'm isolated. Far from it, or should I say... we're close?


But rather, oh rather, say that I get itchy when faced with the hunt. Not for the sake of enduring love and companionship, but rather the addiction of synchronicity.


I'm sorry. I won't make excuses, and I won't fidget away from it. I gamble with myself and others. That has to stop now. At least the others part. I cheerfully wager my flesh, as it is after all, just flesh. A chain of molecules, with a burning point.


Everyone asks me how I am, and the sad and awful truth is... I could not say. I march, I breathe, I study, I wear my uniforms and make my rack... yet on a foundational level, no one is home. Behind my eyes, behind my jokes, lies emptied cities and unraveling skies. It's always midnight here, and only the lost walk in these rain-slicked streets.


(Note, gentle reader. I'm not depressed, alright? Honest. I do just like it when it rains. And my natural mood is always serious. So don't be alarmed. I still love blue skies, crisp sails, violin sonatas, caramel coffee, and a good book. I say again, I am just prone to thinking grey thoughts.)