It’s easy for me to say that I want to share my life with someone, but in reality, I don’t have a life of my own. All I have to give of myself, is myself.

My life consists of work, rest and my friends (of which I have few). I don’t have any family here, nor do I have a career to keep me busy. Besides the various hobbies I have to force myself to indulge in, there really isn’t very much to my existence in LA. Granted I have tried (though not my hardest) to build some sort of a legacy for myself here, I regrettably haven’t even scratched the surface. And to add sadness to frustration I KNOW why, it’s just that I refuse to choose work over passionate sex or quality time with someone who doesn’t even love me the same.  Whatever sort of witchery it is that has me in this loop of self sabotage, I really wish it would just die. Between the feelings and the emotions, the decisions, the secrets, the lies and the pain that I can’t show, I am being ripped apart inside. And it’s hard to keep shit together whence being ripped apart as I’m sure you can imagine. Just the other day someone told me I looked happier than I had ever been. I told them marijuana is my potion, a constant friend indeed.

I am sure most of you who read whatever I write would like to know why I seem so sad in my writings, and yet in all my pictures and other posts I’m smiling or laughing and seem to be enjoying life and everything it offers.

It’s because when I am left alone these are the feelings I am left alone with. I could talk to the person who inspires them but I’m afraid he 1. Won’t understand and 2. Will make me feel foolish for my feelings because he is SO in tune with his, and the fact that he really doesn’t have any for me. All though I’m sure he will tell me different, when you have the sort of feelings for someone I’m talking about, you don’t want to “play the field” or “date” other people. You don’t wanna fuck new strangers just to say you did or to “keep your options open”. Especially when you and I both know that we have the best thing known to man and you constantly tell me how much you “love” me. But When u say “I love you” during sex is it the same as saying “ love ya” through a text? Evidently it is.  Weightless words on a heavy heart. If crying helped I wouldn’t do it so often and randomly, but I digress.

Outside of my senseless search for love or someone like it, and my family, all my life consists of is art and pain. I have an extensive collection of sad/angry/loose lipped poetry I have myself written. Paintings and jewelry I have made. Classic films and music from before I was born. Clothes that people remember, and have never seen. Those things make me comfortable. Not happy, but comfortable. I’m not sure if I will ever be what Happy is supposed to be, but I’m alive and grateful for what I do have. I guess that means something…..

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