Synecdoche

Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. What was once before you - an exciting, mysterious future - is now behind you. Lived; understood; disappointing. You realize you are not special. You have struggled into existence, and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone's experience. Every single one. The specifics hardly matter. Everyone's everyone. So you are him, her, they, us. You are them. All their meager sadnesses are yours; all their loneliness. It's yours. It is time for you to understand this.As the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving - not coming from any place; not arriving any place. Just driving, counting off time. Now you are here, at 7:18. Now you are here, at 7:19. Now you are..

We coexist until we don't exist.

I'm hoping that you'll come around.

Maybe you'll change your mind.

But until that day, which I doubt exists.

I guess we'll stick to kind.



There's nothing I can do to change it.

At least now I know your stance.

And I can't help but think if I were born different.

Then I would have had that fighting chance.



She just wanted to protect me.

But I stayed hard headed and young.

Her warnings weren't much of a shining amour.

Cause boy, those words, they stung.



It's this illness I am plauged with.

A disorder of the skin.

A layer of ugly dirt, and rotting mold.

That keeps you from looking in.



It was stupid to think you were perfect.

But that was before I knew.

I thought that we could be together.

Yeah... that was stupid too.



Here I sit, I write these words.

Black ink upon white sheets.

If paper could talk, it'd be crying out.

Because black it stains and reeks.



If i could momentarily relapse.

And bare my heart for you to see.

Maybe youd notice all the scar tissue.

And hear as it whisphers "pick me, pick me".



It's a harsh reality.

But this is life,

And I will not stop living.