disheartening

Wanting to be closer. As inside as it gets for an outsider, I resign to my fate - my infinity. In another dimension it'd be possible...happiness and me. But for now, another outlet will just have to be.

So much to give, but no desire to, unless it's for you. Stifling.

You? You're not ready, nor will you ever be.

Trying, but still dying. The story dreams and me.

fed yet starving

Why do the most dysfunctional appeal to me the most? Is it possible that I actually prefer disillusionment? I confuse myself...! Is this a defense mechanism to ensure survival? How strong is this fear of disappointment? Enough to ensure starvation?

I have attempted to rationalize, but I remain unsatisfied. Why? The clock ticks like the antagonistic plot of the works of Poe. Yet my standards become more impossible. Without outside influence, I cling to the most ill suited and merely subject myself to what's well. The prospect of being adored...a momentary fixation at best.

I have written optimistic dissertations of my past tormentors; accurate, yet few, of the noble. Peace does not impress...Inspiration emerges from the clarity of struggle.

I defy the accusation that I create discordance - or this relationship would be the same as those past. What I am accustomed to is not of my initial choosing, only my perseverance and patience - more deserved in this case, but in short supply. Once dire, I always manage to escape...this time, to another cage,  where the door is open - yet I stay inside...

What is free? When so many dreams are impossible alone; when so many priorities occupy the same ranking; when decisions reside in limbo indefinitely, awaiting sentencing from supporters.

Have I been imprisoned for so long that I have forgotten how to live?