friskin

Don't ask me what this means: My heart might not recover the tragic realization that no thing is nothing, and that apparently no thing is not worth fighting for. Nothing with nobody. No Body said it right when he said, "I miss you already." Ohhhh, I'll be sighing and crying all the way home, but still I'll be going home, and may be some body's body there. Mine hurts after battling last night; I was thrown down again and again and claimed false victory against my opponent. When I felt a shoulder slam full force into my neck I was sure for a moment that I was a goner. Collapsed windpipe. Done and done. I don't know why we fought for as long as we did, or why I laughed so much about it. It was pushing and grabbing and gruntingly leaning with one spectator and periodic pauses to drink water from the same dirty glass. Some external manifestation of an internal struggle? I was so tired afterward, I curled up and fell asleep on the chair. I think about the duality of my ambitions: to settle down and to never settle down. The former is not possible, and the latter is not practical. This (no)thing was not fair to nobodies. I ruin everything with tiny stubborn fists. Ask me again what I want and I might say no thing. The truth is I don't know, and until I do, life will continue to escape my grasp. If you want someone who can be there, you want someone who isn't me, but I guess that has been evident for some months now. These unplanned developments make me sadder than you could know, babe.

I have a half-studied-for exam in seven hours, and I whole heartedly don't care a bit about it.