Lost in Transmogrification

I'll always wonder how a straightforward comment that leaves my mouth ends up bent completely around in somebody else's mind.

I'm also already tired between having to choose between friend and girlfriend. They're the same. They're equal. Some might say bro's before ho's. Some might say duty to the booty. I say fuck it all. I'm trying to please everyone and they're all just taking it. I won't be criticized. I won't be lectured. I won't be tempted. I won't tolerate threats. Veiled or otherwise.

Was it a bad idea to get involved? I don't really care. Good ideas are about as rare as meteor-strikes, and I was tired of waiting around for something to happen. Was it love?

Love. Love. Is just a word. Bandied about and handwritten in love letters by tasteless dilettantes and hopeless romantics. It's thrown out like a lifeline of spider silk by the naive. It's born in its absence, and it's proven in its silence. Through action. Or inaction. Easily confused with compassion, love is, as it tends to be, a muddled mess of feelings, where you find yourself a million miles where you thought you were supposed to be, following someone else's footprints in the snow with a great yawning expanse before you, and nothing behind you except for hazy memories of a life that could have been someone else's.

Was it Love? No. It was a whole host of things. But it wasn't love. It wasn't the heady rush of exhilaration at the unknown prospect of tomorrow. Like every day before, these days will end, and their endings are not unknown. One could say formulaic, but although the destination is always the same, the means of getting there are the real mystery.

There is a girl out there who is calling me her boyfriend, and it is her wish that it last for years. For the small pleasures that we share, I hope the torture we endure of each other never makes it for that long. I also hope that she never reads this, because I know she will take the wrong meaning from it, as often others do. These relationships... they are a perfect machine. Slight differences are like grit on the turning cogs. At first they grate only slightly. But the longer one has to endure the difference of another, the greater the resentment of that one person becomes.

My patience is geological in tenure, but lessons learned in the past show me that I should not test its longevity again. When the machine breaks, it is broke. It is not safe to try again. I've never asked and only given... and that it seems... that is the only wrong thing I have ever done by any.