the feeling you get when you get kicked in the stomach and then fall over, clutching your wounded pride more than anything...

I hope to find my desperation at the bottom of a bottle. it will be gone tomorrow and from then on -- silence. I assume that role. Open heartedly. I find that separation seems so lost and that togetherness is utterly hopeless. Stuck on the same line. Repeating. As if stuck in a room with no walls, windows, suffocation. Somewhere down the line, the message got lost. The messenger was shot. As if inferiority was an outlet; maybe if inferiority was plan of action -- better yet, a cop-out. Possibly, though I don't want to find a corner, the bottle of desolation will be gone tomorrow too. As will the feelings I feel. The roles I assume. Maybe the silence. Possibly, this all comes rushing back. Wake and repeat. Sleep it off and it's right back. On hiatus for a few hours ... possibly. Perhaps in this time, this window into silence, the answer that never meant to be found is hiding. Perhaps, possibly and maybe all at the same time.

There is no sense in hiding the facts. Facts don't perceive lies the same way lies deceive facts.