Decided to watch the second Hobbit movie.  And I ended up only seeing chunks of it at a time. 

I kept doing other things like getting food, and getting upset, and resorting to my blog to distract me, so I’ll have to watch it again to catch up on the scenes in between.  But it was a good movie.  It had an interesting song at the end.

My largest lies.

Between every hateful notion that passes my mind, is a loving and caring, and gentle one.  I love, and I miss, and I long for peace and love to come back.  I see it just as much as I see the things I despise. 

The only difference is, I have no choice but to keep those things to myself. I can’t write about my love, or about beauty, or about the goodness I’ve felt from her.  I can’t write about my hopes, and my visions of peace.  It’s only more pathetic than my hate, while it isn’t returned in the slightest way.  

My sweet and intimate love is more private than the bad things.  I wish that I could say them though.  I wish that I could write about my love in private to a person I knew that cared.

Instead I feel I have no choice but to broadcast my ugliness.  And my distraught areas.  I want my pain to explain as much love as it does hate.  I’ve wanted it to explain what the absence of my love does to me.  What the absence of my goodness does to me.

I want to fight, and push, and scream, so that it will be obvious that I have nothing else.  I have no other fights.  I have, and want nothing else to love and hate. 

And I understand what mutilation means now.

I always told them I didn’t understand.  I didn’t. 

I might still not understand their own reasons, because they’ve never been where I am, and I wasn’t in the place they were, but I have my own personal inclinations. 

I want a different kind of pain.  I don’t want this kind anymore.  I’m warn out, and still consuming it at it’s full pace.  I’m exhausted, and it won’t lessen in any way.  My mind has broken down just like my muscles would if I kept running for miles, but I’m being forced to sprint.  I can’t handle it, and I can’t take myself out of this world entirely yet.  I know it’s not my time. 

But I want to feel something different, and I want evidence of it.  I want to see my body break the same way that my mind does.  I want it to be out of my control, leaking out.  Unable to heal, or feel well. 

I want my pain to be different, and not like this.  It’s been too long that my mind has been in pain.  I need to direct it.  I need control.

When will it rise to the surface in your own mind?

How long will you make me wait, in vain?  And for convenience?  Love does not destroy someone to have them. 

Love is kind, and does not win.

Love is not what happened, and it’s not what is happening now.  When will it be understood by your own feelings and by your own retrospective maturity?

Hurry.  If you want forgiveness, hurry to understand.

Because I am so angry, and I can only get worse, because I’m waiting for someone I do love.  And I’m grinding me teeth and smashing the things around me because I have nothing else to do, but wait. 

Help me.  Show me.

I get it now.

If I’m tired enough, I can sleep before everyone else goes to bed.  That’s why I always want to fall asleep around people.  Once everyone goes to sleep and the thoughts behind my thoughts realize I’m alone, it doesn’t matter how tired I get.

I can’t sleep.  I can’t lie down alone.

For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass.

The Outsider