i suppose this is the result of running away for so many years … i have forgotten where i came from, who i am, why i am here, and what i am doing … numbly regurgitating old idioms taught by squeamish parents, half-interested teachers, old self-mirrored friends, careless boy fumblings in the haze of a desert life, everything some floating mirage of contrived meaning … i am contrived that’s why i can’t utter a single fucking word without cringing … i remember caring, only remember … i am trying to care, but in this i find i haven’t the time to be anything … i suppose i am not equipped to stay intact in this … i can’t seem to slow down worth shit … trying to hide, instead of attempting to develop is showing through, i hate my fucking parents for this … not allowing me to be myself without some kind of happy sheen, allowing them to think of me in some childish stupor of idealism … never attempting to let it grow, always wanting to make me tell, make me tell the big secret that underneath it all i knew they had no idea what the fuck was going on and they never should have had us, so they could use this knowledge of frailty against me some other day … and now i have spent so many years atempting to hide myself and run away from them, i feel utterly trapped in a place i was trying to avoid … this numb ache of there being something else that i will now never be able to see … only sense in a depressive haze of preoccupation .. i know this is what you were so afraid of wesley, this slow mind decay, you would rather die or destroy yourself or have a reason to be dead … i am so sorry, so sorry …

my cat, the one i got when i was seven, is slowly losing its mind, its back, between the tale and lumbar spine is so thin and hollow, and it shouldn’t be … its eyes, old gold liquifying in the crystal lights, are lop-sided, one pupil bulged out to the side … he stares off into and through the wall, when he jumps into my cold, cowering lap, he digs his claws into me to clinge to something, anything substantial … and i think i know him better this way, i know how he is fading … i am, too, my childhood dream, i remember your hope of a good hearty cat life with all the trimmings, all the full stomachs, aging in a beautiful wisdom that made the folds soften and the leaps more careful but still possible, not so pained and so forgotten, as if this was the only moment left and this actually was the only moment there ever was … and ever will be, learning being so ephemeral and experience being such an unsupported argument … no depth without memory, no wisdom without depth, no life without frailty, i suppose …