Failure.

Well, date #3 ended tonight. It was with a girl named Melissa. 32, has a dog, lives in a condo, works in human resources for an inspection company. Doesn't have a favourite food, loves the Downtown Diner in the Fort. She broke up with her last boyfriend because he stopped texting/seeing her due to some issues he was having with his job, and they drifted apart.

I couldn't help but realize that this is what Gina would be saying about me to someone else. It wasn't for the exact same reason that Melissa broke up with her ex, but it felt eerily similiar, in that I allowed the stress of my job to overcome how important Gina was to me at the time. I started taking her for granted. I didn't "feel" as strongly towards her as I did before, and as I do now. I..

Man.. a part of me is screaming, "I FAILED" just like it has been screaming at me every day since the day Gina broke up with me. Every day, I am reminded of her somehow. A red car on the street. Something she said. Something we did. Something I wish I could have done. Something I'm experiencing that I wish I could share with her.

Words I want to say. Kisses I want to give. Hugs. Hand holding.. Touching..

And.. I looked at her pictures today, and ..

I have these Dolly Parton tickets I paid 288$ each for. Tickets that I want her to have, but have no idea how to give them to her, because they are stupid "e-tickets" that use a QR code on a mobile phone for entry. I can't just mail them to her, I'd have to transfer it over to her email address and hope she doesn't get mad at me for having bought them.

I love that woman.. I LOVE HER.

I am still thinking of her everyday.

When I was with Melissa tonight, I thought she was really cute, and I forgot about Gina for a little while. I didn't use her for comparison, and Melissa laughed at my jokes, smiled, played with her hair.. and I don't know.. On the drive home, that optimistic feeling I had faded and Gina came back into my mind.

Again.

Amy.. Melissa... Libby.. Three dates in a week.

And I still can't stop thinking of this one girl that I fucked up with.

The one girl that I most want to be with,

And.. I have to give her those tickets.. I'll have to wait a month, at least, just.. to.. I don't know. Maybe to let things settle down.

My heart feels so heavy right now. But.. it somehow also feels really light. Like, I'm not quite burdened.. but I am. I don't understand it. Its not that I have an irrational obsession with Gina, but it feels like a rational one. It feels like I can't give up on her. I can't stop trying. But I have to.. she doesn't want me to message her, to text, to call, or to leave anything at her house.

The only hope I have right now, is that I can still mail her something.

I know, how stupid is it for me to hold onto a loophole. I said I wouldn't do any of those things she told me not to, but she didn't mention mail...

If I do that, I'm going to have to do it right.

A month from now, I'm going to send her those tickets.. and... I don't know what to say when I do.

I'm toying with this right now, as an email, since I'm going to have to email her...

Carolyn,

Hi. These were supposed to be a surprise for you. I apologize for having contacted you again, but I hope enough time has passed that whatever hostility you felt towards me, is gone by this point.

I'm not going to use these, and I know you will appreciate going to see Dolly. I don't expect anything in return from you.

So, take Dawn, or your mom and have a great time. Just don't sing too loudly when 9 to 5 comes on :)

Or do... Live. Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.

You are a wonderful human being. I have been spending my free time lately, thinking about many different things, and when it comes to that statement, I find no disagreement in making it.

You are the most wonderful woman I have ever met.

I am tempted.. sorely tempted, to spend the rest of this email going off on how great I think you are. What I liked about you. What I ..

I was going to say.. loved... about you, but that's enough. This email isn't about me, it's about you. I want you to go have a good time at this show. I don't want you to get upset that I bought you these tickets. I don't want you to be sad. I honestly, truly, absolutely think that these tickets are a bargain for my being able to know you.

I am changed now. You are responsible for my finally being able to let go of the past. I was worried (ugh, I'm making this letter about me...) that this "change" would fade, and I would go back to being careless about my life and ignorant of my future. But it's still sticking. I'm still keeping a clean house. I'm still doing things every day to improve myself. I'm still kicking myself for how I took you for granted, and I'm still sad that you broke up with me the way you did.

Anyways... That's enough. I feel ridiculous entertaining this compulsion of mine to tell you my life story, as much as I want to, so you can understand why I am the way I am and why ...

Ugh. It's really not easy cutting this letter short.

Please enjoy the show. Yes, I still miss you. Yes, I am dating again (though I don't want to). And yes...

I still love you.

Take care,


David.

That's the letter.. I guess it came out differently than I had it pictured in my head. Originally, I just wanted it to be short and to the point, but..

Man... this girl. THIS GIRL. This beautiful human being is gone from my life...

Because *I* fucked it up.

She may think that people don't change, and I understand her need to avoid conflict, which is why she broke up with me through text and ignored my messages and calls.

But I don't agree with her reasons. I just don't. Maybe I have an exceptional memory, that I can recall all of our good moments and maybe I'm too much... Too much of something.. that I can picture a future with us together.

I don't know why.. Well, I do know why I'm persisting like this..

Because she was the best girlfriend I've ever had in my life.

She was kind. Smart. Caring. Thoughtful.

Warm... She had warmth.. until that last day she didn't.. When she came to my door with these eyes.. those eyes that looked differently somehow.. as if they've lost their light.

I should've done something then. I should've stopped and asked what was wrong.

Instead, I shrugged. I didn't know what that was, but I thought she would never break up with me without us having a conversation about it first.

But she did...

She just gave up.

Out of nowhere.

I don't know what more is there to say about this... I don't ... want to forget her and to "move on" to someone else, like two of my female co-workers suggested I do. I don't want to forget the one I love. I don't want to lose hope that somehow.. maybe.. by some miracle.. she will give me a second chance..

I pray for that chance... I am living for that chance right now...

But.. I don't want to hurt myself anymore than I already have. I don't ..

I don't want false hope... I don't ... want to believe that a God, or some miracle will make something like this happen, only to have my faith shattered into a thousand pieces when...

when... maybe, when she gets those tickets and... says something.. I don't know what. I don't know how she will react. But I don't think the odds are good, that she will be happy.

I don't think... I don't know.. Dolly is a pretty big deal for her..

She'd love to go, for sure.

But on my account? On my tab?

Would she accept such a thing?

Should I even be doing this?

I don't know anymore.. I just.. I'm just going by.. feelings.. and not logic.. None of what I'm doing is logical, unless you look at it in a certain way. It's only logical, if I truly believe her to be the one person that I plan to marry and spend the rest of my life with.

Then it's logical. Then it makes sense... but only, if I am absolutely sure that she is that person.

I think she is.. God save me.. I really do. I've ... All I do is think about her.. I have never felt this way towards any other girlfriend I've had.. Not even Lauren.

I... When Lauren and I broke up.. It felt definitive. She brutalized my soul. She tore it to pieces, and it took so long for me to patch it back together.

With Gina.. it doesn't quite feel that way.

She didn't tear my soul.. but, she ... pierced .. I don't know.. I .. I am transformed.. I am a different man now. A responsible one.

I'm a guy that is keeping a clean house now, for fuck's sake. That has never happened.

Every day I'm doing something new...

And every day I keep thinking of her.

Over and over.

Thinking of her is like playing the same record, again and again...

And never really getting tired of it.

But... I am dating.. I am trying to fill my day with things to do.. I am not really moping..

Am I?

I am... I guess I am moping.. but ... something is different, now.

Something really has changed in me, that is making me better.

I found the courage to let go of a past that involved a lot of wasted time and carelessness.

That to me, is.. progress. Massive progress.

And all credit goes to her breaking up with me, to cause this to happen.

One of the scary thoughts that I entertain, is that through all the years I've been praying, wishing, hoping for the girl of my dreams to appear; the scary thing for me to wonder about, is if I did meet that girl. And it was her. My one chance.

Wasted. Squandered.

Gone.

I don't know about soulmates.. I have no clue... But I do know a good person, and I do know.. now.. well, at least I think I know.. What love really is.

It's... This. It's... me. It comes from me, and it doesn't need reciprocation.

It hungers for it.. But it doesn't need it. Love can exist independently inside of one person. It doesn't need another.

All love needs, is a catalyst.

And I've had my catalyst.

At the worst possible time.

AFTER we've broken up.

and.. God.. I was going to say, and no chance of ever seeing her again..

But I won't say that.. I .. don't want to say that...

I ...

I think I've said enough.

An Encore

I am such a fucking idiot.

Why? Because I read my earlier posts. About Leah, about Amy.

And I'm saying the same stupid fucking things almost, that I said about Gina.

"One of a kind"
"This is really love"
"I never felt anything like this before.."
"I'm trying, I'm really trying."

Wow.. what am I? Who am I? I claim to be learning from my mistakes, and yet I overlook those two girls? And I couldn't "fix" my mistakes with Gina, for some reason? I couldn't have put my experience to use?

See, this is why history is so important. It reminds us of things that should not be forgotten. This is why I still keep pictures of these exes, and why I still have Lauren's letters.

I am repetitive. I am going through the same bullshit now as I have been five years ago. I didn't love Leah, not even close. I didn't love Amy, fuck her.

But, Gina.. dammit. I mean.. I was scared. I didn't open up to her... not in the same way I opened up to Lauren, or Leah, or Amy.. That was the mistake I made this.. no, that was ANOTHER mistake I've made that I didn't learn from. I opened up with Leah, and it didn't do me any good. Wait a minute.. maybe I have learned from my mistake.. I didn't open up with Gina, because of what happened in the past.

I am such a fascinating subject to probe into. I'm so lucky to have a mind like my own and a soul that has had the experiences it has.

I'm a goddamn resevioir. If I ever can spell that word correctly.

My soul is RICH. For all of its scars, it still shines. It still surprises me with its depth, and character and kindness and faith.

I'm not depressed over Georgina, I'm terribly sad, yes, but not depressed.

I wonder why... No, really. The breakup should have destroyed me more than Leah/Amy already did.

But it didn't.

I'm now thinking, that all those shitty relationships, all those bad moments, are preparing me for something great. I would not have appreciated Georgina as much if I had never dated Lauren, for example. I would not have appreciated her, if I didn't date as many women as I have. I would not be able to recognize her worth, really, or consider her as someone I'd want to spend the rest of my life with.

The past has molded me, is still molding me. For every step backwards, I seem to take a half-step forward. And then 3/4 of a step, until finally I'm going forward and I'm in this new... paradigm.. or, experience where my faith is again tested and then.. well, I don't know if this is really true or not, but it then feels rewarded. If Lauren and I didn't break up, and we got married and I ended up having a shitty life and then a divorce, that would be so much worse for me than to simply break up after six months. SO MUCH WORSE. I'd be devastated with a divorce. Especially if there are kids involved. And then paying child support, and possibly alimony... picking up my kids on the weekend, while Lauren fucks some other guy.

Hell, no. I like THIS way better. I kind of am the star of my own Groundhog Day film.

I feel like I'm moving, again. Forward. Slowly, but surely. A tortoise following an invisible carrot on a long stick. But inevitably, I get to eat that thing. Even if it's just a little, I still get a prize.

But.. I don't like thinking that I'm going to find someone better than Gina. I.. have a hard time right now imagining it, and knowing what the past six years.. Hell, my whole life has been up to this point and the women I involved myself with.

Georgina was the best of the bunch.

No exaggeration. I won't be reading this post a year from now thinking otherwise. I'm pretty sure of it.

Carolyn Georgina Clayton is the love of my life.

When I say that out loud, it doesn't feel like anything but the truth. And I have been saying it every day now, since our breakup, it seems.

Every day.

I know I won't be with her. I have no way of seeing her. I'm not going to stalk her, I'm not going to annoy her.

But, I'm going to keep loving her.

I know what the past is like.

I know what kind of person she is. For the most part.

I know she's kind, generous, giving, gentle and good.

At least that's what I think I know.. but she was the one who broke up through text and then said, "well, texting is your preferred means of communication..." as a reason as to why she did it like that to me, well... that's.. cruel. I don't know what to make of this one thing, though. Was it actually cruelty at the time to her? Did she really want to break up with me through text, because she thought thats the method I preferred, was it done out of cowardice, or did she do it out of spite?

If it's spite...

I don't think it is. But again, she did ignore all my messages and got angry at me for trying to figure out what exactly went wrong, which she can only explain as.. well, it doesn't matter. I covered that already.

Anyways...

I should fix my pictures on this blog. Looks like a lot of them have gone missing.

Remember

Oh God...

I'm still thinking about her. I thought about her today while I was at Elk Island Park, walking around alone, enjoying the awesome weather and the setting and people on canoes.. and me thinking that I would've loved to take her with me on a canoe, and..

Oh, God...

Then, a few weeks ago when I told some women at work that I was broken up with, and through text, they were super sympathetic. One even made a (?) joke about her being single and available and that the best way for me to forget someone, is to get with someone new.

Well, I reactivated my OkCupid account a few days ago, and..

God...

I'd almost forgotten how much I hated it. I HATE IT. Online dating.. You can't.. I don't want to even get into details, because somehow I'm going to dignify the idea of dating online by doing so, so fuck that. Online dating sucks. There. End of discussion.

So, I get messaged by some girl. She's okay looking, but all she says is "hi". And then I look at her profile, and the damned thing is EMPTY. She wasn't a bot or anything like that, because she "liked" me in this Quickmatch thing that I also happened to "like" her in, so she messaged me. It was a real person.

But, yeah. All she said was "hi" .. followed by me looking at a blanker than blank profile with NOTHING in it. Not like she was brand new either, I don't think. And so I write back with:

"Hello. That's quite an empty profile you've got."

Then she says how "she knows" but that I could ask her "anything".

What laziness.

So I humor her, thinking that already she's not my type and that I may as well probe her for something that could benefit me. So I asked her what did she like most about my profile. Presumably, because that is what she read before deciding to contact me. Unless she really only did go off of the photos...

Anyways, I ask her what did she like most about my profile?

She writes back with, "well it's interesting."

Message one.

Message two, was "getting to know u."

(closes OkCupid App)

(cries when I start remembering how perfect Georgina was)

I'm sitting in this bathtub, a grown ass man with his head in his hands and these little tears dribbling out the side of my eyes. My phone vibrates, and it's a text from this girl I agreed to meet with on Sunday.

HER TEXTS ARE BORING.

Her name is Libby, and .. I didn't think much of her at first, but she had some sort of real depth to her, and when she sent me a link to her blog, her posts had a tremendous amount of depth. There was a real soul and heart to this woman. Plus, she was a writer. And a good one too!

But man, her texts.. is just like that girl saying "hi". I have to continually ask questions and keep the "conversation" moving along. All she does is answer them with one sentence, and maybe a LOL or a smiley face, and then wait for me to respond to her NOTHING answer. I'm not a colour commentator. I don't follow "your" action with clever witticisms and thoughts. A CONVERSATION IS NOT HAVING YOUR EGO GETTING ITSELF MASSAGED BY SOMEONE WHO RESENTS DOING IT.

I am NOT here to prop women up. To fix them. To appease them. To overlook the glaring flaws that they have so little self-respect and faith in themselves, that they cannot even bother to try fixing. Or even noticing. Careless, spoiled, entitled, self-centered...

BITCHES.

There. That felt good. I don't swear often, and I held off on saying "cunts" but BITCHES, felt good. Really good.

Not that Libby is a bitch, but most women. Most women on DATING SITES are BITCHES.

The sad part? They're bitches, or boring, or shallow, because OF US.

MEN.

And men are the ones who .. Geez, WHAT A STUPID FUCKING CYCLE.

Women try to do what they think "men" want from them. Pretty, DTF, big tits or ass or whatever.. makeup all over themselves, lipstick, clothes.. they all do these things to get "men".

And what do men do?

We work out. Or we work, and make a ton of money. We provide both protection and security. We're leaders. Risk-takers. Loyal. Honourable. Family-first. That sort of thing.

That sort of thing that women want, I mean.

But what are guys actually looking for?

It's not casual sex. Hell yeah we love sex, but fucking some girl that we don't have feelings for is something on par with inflating up a love doll, or paying some hooker to blow you in an empty parking lot someplace. WE DON'T CARE how we blow our loads. We just NEED to.

And that's part of the problem we have. Our crazy ass testosterone clouds rational thought when it comes to a good looking gal. And women know this, hence why they manipulate themselves to fit that ideal image that they think men expect of them. And if they can't meet that image, then they'll find ways to compensate... Such as ugly girls fucking a guy on the first date. Or they'll be extra attentive in bed. Or they become good cooks, able to keep a clean home.. Whatever. "Ugly" women can always find a way to compensate.

So, again, what are guys actually looking for?

What are women, actually looking for?

Anyone who doesn't think that "love" is the correct answer, is an idiot.

Both genders need and want to be loved, dammit.

LOVED.

That word is so polluted nowadays, that I think its lost its meaning.

Saying it doesn't mean shit, anymore.

I love you? Who cares. Heard that before. From other people, too.

What makes YOUR "I love you" better than HIS "I love you" or HER "I love you" ??

Saying that word, doesn't mean shit.

Which is why I hated myself for telling Georgina that I loved her.. AFTER SHE BROKE UP WITH ME.

I SHOULD HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH HER BEFORE IT HAPPENED.

WHEN IT WOULD HAVE MOST COUNTED.

WHEN LOVE WOULD HAVE ACTUALLY STOOD A CHANCE.

But no, I fucked it all up. I fucked it good.

So that is why as I was outside having a cigarette, after deciding to start again, that I began to think about writing down some of the important things that I have learned from being with Georgina. Mistakes come at a very steep price to me, and I am determined to pay into them as little as possible when it comes to future relationships. That is what IT IS IMPORTANT to not forget ANYTHING I've learned from any of the women I've been involved with in my life.

If history is forgotten, the same mistakes will be made over and over.

Which is something I should have said to Georgina, when she asked me why I still had letters from my ex from six years ago. And the, "why do you even have those? move on!" comment she gave me regarding it.

Well, I didn't give her a proper answer. You know, me being in a shocked and flustered mess over the phone. I didn't know she would call. I was initially elated, and hoping for a better conversation than what followed, and I couldn't keep my head straight through fighting back my tears and turning into a little girl with a skinned knee.

So here it is, the things I have learned from dating Georgina.

1. It is OKAY to get angry. LET YOUR ANGER OUT. Georgina spontaneously dumped me without warning, through text, and ignored my messages and phone calls. Then she has the nerve to get angry with ME, because I'm annoying her by leaving flowers at her house, and/or giving her that package with the CD and the letters. I should have told her this over the phone. That I HAVE MORE RIGHT TO BEING ANGRY, THAN SHE DOES. She had no right to be angry at me for the way SHE decided to break up. And then to be "angry" because I didn't go so quietly into the night like she wished I would. Tough. That's a cruel way of treating someone who cared for you. Who she had good chemistry with. Who brought her flowers every month, and tried to treat her well. Someone who gave her the best sex of her life. Someone she claimed she once thanked "God" for having met. THAT GUY IS ME and this is the dignity she left me with. The complete lack of respect and loss of faith in me as a boyfriend and prospective partner and general human being. THAT IS A GOOD REASON FOR ME TO GET ANGRY, AND IT'S OKAY TO GIVE INTO IT BECAUSE IT IS HUMAN. IT IS A NORMAL REACTION. ANGER IS MY WAY OF PROTESTING AGAINST INJUSTICE. And that is exactly what has been delivered to me, and I whimpered all over it.

2. At the 3-month mark, do whatever you can to meet her friends and family. Do not hem and haw and worry about making a good impression on her kids or to impress her mom, or get along with her friend. I should have met Cash and Cole by this point, and because I love kids, I'm pretty sure they would enjoy having me around as well. Which means that the breakup might never have happened, had I properly integrated myself into her life. And integrated her into mine. Instead, I coasted. She met my family at my father's viewing; but I did not meet a single one of hers. In almost six months. Pathetic, and I'm completely regretful.

3. Take charge. Women don't want wishy-washy men who are indecisive or constantly defer decisions to their girlfriend/wife. If I want to go to a particular place to eat, we're going there. If I think a walk in the park at this particular moment is what I most feel like doing, then we're going there. Maybe I'd want to play Super Mario World on the SNES for an hour, yep, we're doing that. Maybe I just want to lay in bed and listen to music. We're gonna do that. Women appreciate men who take charge, and although I can be one of those, I was not in a fearless mood enough to throw caution to the wind. I did not want the relationship to fail, so I kept asking, "what do you feel like doing? what do you think about going to this place?" questions, and wasted a lot of time and the excitement of being spontaneous and flying by the seat of my pants. Because deep inside, I am the adventurous type. I do like to just walk outside, barefoot, at one in the morning just to stand in the grass and look up at the moon. I like to take a different route to work, or to visit an area or restaurant that I haven't been in. I won't risk my life and limbs by bungee jumping, or parachuting out of a plane; and I won't risk my finances to travel to exotic, far-away locales, but I am adventurous. I just never trusted that about myself. But I trust that now, because I'm now trying to...

4. Stay true to yourself. Recognize your limitations. Know who you are, and who you want to be, but don't pretend to be something you are not. Not even a little bit. Because nobody can love flawlessness, it's too blinding. Too unreal. Too impossible for anyone to attain, so why pretend to be perfect? I learned from Georgina, that I was holding back my swears out of fear of offending her. Not that I enjoy swearing, but there are times when calling Dustin a "fucking idiot" would've been better than, "what a moron" when she calls to tell me about the latest dumb thing he's done. And, staying true to myself means that I can live in the moment. I don't have to be afraid of offending anyone, because I am being authentically myself. And I KNOW I am a good person. I KNOW I'm spiritual. I KNOW I am capable of loving another human being to great depths and bringing them crazy amounts of happiness and joy. I KNOW THESE THINGS and yet because of my shitty hearing problem, and because of the fear I gained after Lauren; I had to pretend that those weren't issues, when they very much were. If I was true to myself, I would mention, in the moments that mattered, those exact issues. Those fears I carry. These concerns I'm having. Not wait until when we break up. I was supposed to tell her them while we were dating. I'm just an incredibly vulnerable person, who thinks that our relationship was too good to be true, so I started acting unnaturally so as to minimize the chances of a break up. Which happened anyways, no matter how hard I tried to make sure it wouldn't. That's the key point here, that I tried HARD to make sure she wouldn't break up with me, and she did. So what does that tell me? I should have put those energies to better use. And I should have spoken up whenever something bothered me, or if I sense something is bothering her. And because of modern technology, I should've...

5. STOPPED TEXTING and START CALLING. Or at least severely curtail the texting, because there's no emotion in it. Texting and letters.. they're nice and all, but they don't carry the warmth of the voice. The emotions behind the words are assumed, rather than experienced. Over the phone, this is all possible with sound, not so with the eyes. It's much harder to paint a proper picture of how you are feeling, when having to type words, instead of speaking them. I mean sure, if you're a really good writer and can hone in on exactly the right thing to say at exactly the right times, then sure, you could probably get away with not having to call much, but you still have to call. Why? Because TEXTING IS SOULLESS. If I had not been texting so much, and calling instead, I could have made a better connection with Gina, but I didn't. I was too scared of what my impulsiveness and my hearing issues would bring. Because you can't just ignore a question or statement for a few minutes while you sit around and wonder what to text back with. You have to answer right away and you have to answer correctly without making assumptions about what exactly was said (due to the hearing). There's no time to stop and really think. Women don't want to engage with their guys on a rational level, they want that emotional connection, even though as men, we feel uneasy about making it. Talking over the phone satisfies that connection, if there is a distance, but technology... I mean, even Skype where you get video and voice.. I don't know.. I still think the phone is the absolute best way of keeping a relationship going the way it should.

6. Never stop believing. Never lose faith. Never give up on life and fall into depression over a woman. Those three things aren't really things I've "learned" from dating Carolyn, but they were reaffirmed after she broke up with me. I realized that six years ago, I thought I could never find someone as "good" as I thought Lauren was for me. I thought I was done. And for six years, I was in a dark place where I didn't respect any of the women I've dated. They were nothing to me. I took a bit of pride in making most of them out to be hypocrites, but there was no joy in doing so. Leah, who said she "loved me" even before we met, turned out to be a freak, and didn't love me at all. I mean, I know there's more examples, but whatever, not going to get into the history now. The point is, I never thought I could find someone as complementary as Lauren was, and I did, and I got more than I expected. After the fourth month, was when my mask started slipping, and the ugly stuff that I was keeping buried deep in myself, kind of peeked out at the surface. Not in a direct, surprising way, but a kind of slow revealing, like a thick cloud creeping across the sun, when you have spent all of your life up to that point, not expecting such a thing to happen. The mask can only stay up for so long, before the effort of maintaining it, becomes excruciating to bear. So.. shit, do I ramble.. I have to re-read this.. Yeah, where with Lauren I fell into a six-year abyss; with Gina, I have been raised to what I hope, is a lifetime of bliss. Because now I know what my biggest failures were. I know what mistakes to avoid. Or will try to avoid, rather, because I can't ever predict what will come at me next. But, faith.. faith and hope kind of came with Gina. The reaffirmation of it, I mean. She showed me what love could be. She showed me what my ideal girl could be. She made me believe she could love me, and spoil me, and shower me with affection and kindness and joy and surprises.. She made me believe that there IS a woman, and perhaps other women out there, that can be as kind-hearted and sweet as she is. I don't care how ugly of a breakup we've had, I still love her. And I still believe that whatever up there is responsible for me finding her, that it will bring me someone as good as her or better, if I keep myself on the right path. Maybe, and this is a glorious dream that probably will never happen, but maybe.. faith will reward me with being able to see Georgina again. I don't know. I think it's been a month since I've seen her last, so the memories are still fresh. Maybe I will feel different about Gina in a few months or a year from now. But I don't know.. we'll see if such a thing could ever happen. I don't know what could ever make her want to call or contact me again, or what I could ever do.. So, I don't know... but I do know that life is full of surprises, and I should know that something Greater than myself is up there, or around me, and watching over me. Like it's watching over the billions of other people on this planet. Many, of whom do not have a meaningful relationship with this Greater power like I have developed. I have cursed it, blessed it and ignored it, and despite all the obstacles and pains; I still get surprises from life. Some of them are strange, and they seem to come at opportune moments when I least expect them, but in hindsight, needed them most to appear at that time. So, yeah. If you are spiritual, then hold faith that there is something out there looking after things and that the whole point of being alive on this planet, is to discover happiness and a connection with the Creator. A Creator, who you may as well describe as a parent. Because that is absolutely how important such a being should be to us. How does miracles and coincidences and signs work? Who really knows, but they do. I'm pretty damned sure they do.

7. There is no number 7. Not yet. I'm wiped out after typing what feels like 3,000 words in a blog post, so I'm going to wrap it up for now and see if any new thoughts come to mind in the next few days. I still think of her every day, so I'm sure something new will come up...

(sighs) ... back to the real world I go. To texting women that have been unemployed for three years, are overweight, depressed, unattractive and expect me to fall head over heels with them.

Back I go.

Georgina

Oh my God...

I have failed so hard.

Today, I felt the compulsion to drop off a basket of flowers on Georgina's doorstep with a note saying for her to call me.

Well, she called.

And it was awful.

When I asked if she read the letters, her first reaction was to get angry. As if the things Jennifer Lauren Johnson has done to me deserved the dignity of having her letters kept private. But, Gina was angry that I shared and surprised at how long I've kept them for. She also expressed "concern" that I *could* share the correspondence we both had together.

Unbelievable. Nobody understands me.

Intentions don't seem to matter anymore.

Those letters... that whole package I left her, was supposed to be two things. An ugly confession of what an ugly woman has done to me six years ago that has scarred me to this day, and the second part of this package was the CD, which was the most incredible mix I have ever done. For anyone. It was perfect. It captured my feelings perfectly. It was touching. It was stirring...

IT WAS BEAUTIFUL.

And what does Carolyn say about the CD?

"I threw it out."

She didn't even listen to it.

Oh, God... I want to believe that faith matters in this world, I really do, but stuff like this.. stuff like this makes it so damned hard.

I love Carolyn.

I think about her every day.

And now, after our long conversation with me trying desperately to hold back my tears and keeping my voice level and calm (and constantly failing).. its...

Done.

It's done.

There was.. this moment.. where I asked Gina what it was she felt with us during the first few months together.

"Oh, that was infatuation."

Infatuation.

That lead up to a breakup from out of nowhere, with little explanation why, done through text..

And oh.. God... she stuck a knife in me, regarding text.

"It's your preferred means of communication."

Oh, God...

I have FAILED.

These words can't convey it enough. I feel like my heart, my imagination, my soul, my spirit..

God.

All these things have betrayed me.

Those days I spent listening to the CD, thinking Gina was listening to it too, thinking that she will "get" me once she puts two and two together.

No more.

Nobody ever "gets" me.

I'm too damned complicated for this world, I'm too naive... and nobody can....

...

Oh, God.

I have to move on.

No matter what.

love don't keep me waiting

Well, that's that. Having listened to the CD I made for Georgina, again, for what has to be dozens upon dozens of times I've been listening to it since giving it to her on Sunday; I have to say, that if this music, and those "love" letters from my ex-girlfriend Jennifer Lauren Johnson, if neither of these things could melt Georgina's heart, then I don't know what ever will.

Nothing can top what I did for her.

No one is more deserving of being with her, than I am. And the same goes for her. I am a fantastic human being. I love who I am inside, even when I have to hide it. I always have to hide it.

Those Lauren letters are a good part of the reason why.

I don't want to get too close to anyone, so that my heart won't have to suffer the fear of attempted murder towards it. For a long time, I could coast by on the mask. The fake face I wear to appease women, friends, family, co-workers and strangers on the street. A mask that looked pretty damned convincing to even the most observant of witnesses. A fascimile practically as good as the real thing.

Except, my face isn't real. Yes, it has been looked under, and my ugliness revealed, along with the beauty I feel tucked down below. The love and reverence I have for all of humanity, even if I cannot express it directly, so I do it with jokes. Smiles. A genuine interest in the going ons and whats happenings of other people's lives. Those flashes come out here and then, as convincing as can be, my disguise is only as good as how realistic it is. And to fake convincingly, means to let parts of your true self shine through, so that others can be satisfied and won't trouble to investigate any deeper.

Yeah, life is a tough gig. For me, anyways. I used to get jealous at people who seemed to have it altogether. Great wife. Happy kids. Fun or interesting job. Well off financially. Surrounded by countless friends and relatives, all who appear to genuinely love one another. I used to get jealous, then I realized, what for?

I'm a dreamer. I dream big and small. And some of my biggest dreams are among the most beautiful of images I have created inside my head. Those are the dreams that have me living inside of them, as if suddenly this world ceased to be, and I found myself on a new one. One that looked very similar to the one I left, but with me stepping into the shoes of a man who has it all. Money, love, family, respect, enjoyment, having normal hearing...

There's my mask again. And there's a long story that needs to be told, but I don't have the interest in telling it. At least not right now.

Well, guess I rambled on long enough. My heart.. my soul... is.. all hers.

Georgina's. Carolyn Georgina Clayton, has seen the depths of who I am.

And who I would be capable of becoming, should she be at my side right now. Giving me a second chance. Now that I'm no longer afraid of getting close to her, and taking down that wall I couldn't bring myself to remove. That distance between us is what's responsible for her breaking up with me. That fear of mine.

Fear that an insane woman has scarred me with for six years.

"I love you David" ... "woops, no I didn't!"

times, three. x3.

Or however many times it actually was. I have to laugh at how dumb of a comparison my mind cooked up, comparing Charlie Brown wiping out after Lucy pulled the football out from under his kick.

Oh Charlie Brown, when will you ever learn?

Well Lucy, I just learned it today actually.

I'm listening to Foreigner as I type. Yeah, listening to "the CD" again. I still somehow find new ways to listen to it. While stoned. While drunk. Half-asleep. During a hike. On the side of a road in the middle of nowhere, at night, during a storm. I tell you, I'm pretty creative at keeping this stuff fresh.

So, why am I typing on the blog right now? I don't know. It's a private blog, not a public one, and I know I'm going to be the only one reading this, so.. maybe I'm just venting. I have no audience to pander towards. I have no one other than myself, and it's best I keep myself happy, because if I can't keep myself happy, the guy I have to live with for the rest of my life; then there's no chance of ever really finding it. Y'know? Happiness rolls along in spite of whatever obstacles gets placed in front. And  if the years have taught me anything, it's that its fairly painless to move on. What we see as obstacles are rarely permanent, and can often build clarity of character and soul. Tragedies can make us into better people. Not saying that I advocate everyone suffering from some moment of terrible agony, but in order to get into heaven, one must fully understand what hell actually is.

Heaven and hell are the things we make.

And for the moment, heaven and hell are both on earth.

And we are the soldiers. The ones who fight with honor, warring against the ones that fight dirty.

And cruel. Good vs Evil, no?

Nobody should ever have to worry about the afterlife and what comes next after we gasp our last breath.

Worry about what's in front of you right now.

This moment.

This silence.

Eyes moving on a page. Stopping. Then thinking. Dreaming.

That stillness.

Embrace it.

Ahem.. *cliche alert* become One, with the Universe.

Anyways, yeah. Guess that's enough writing for now. Sorry old blog, haven't posted on you in a while, glad you're still here.

Today I was getting my haircut and saw a four year old smiling and giggling in the barber's chair. His smile was contagious. Such a sweet, sweet kid.

You know who I thought of?

Cole. With that little indentation on his cheek.

And then, what I thought of after..

Kinda.. well, it made me sad. I was sad because I never got to meet Cole. I never got the chance to make him smile. Or laugh. Or give him a hug. Or be hugged in return. Or have his hair tousled with. You know.. those things that a loving dad would do for his young kids.

I was sad because I lost my chance at having that moment with Cole. And Cash. And..

Man.. typing is so hard...

Know what? I..

phew...

I'm still here.

Gonna wait for you Georgina. Carolyn. Baby doll.

I hope I get to see you soon.

Hello my old friend

My poor, neglected blog, how long and hard have you suffered.

Through the years, you have always waited, patiently for the dance of my fingertips upon your spine.

When the walls have closed in, and webs have appeared strung across the entrance, you still waited for me to walk through the door, with a smile and a conversation.

I love you, my blog, but like you, I too suffer the pains of your loneliness, and the wants of kindness and good fortune. I too, desire the attentions that I have held from you, that I occasionally brush your lips with, painting them with gold and leaving you wanting more.

It is a cruel sort of karma that I perpetuate onto you, my dear blog, for I share your suffering, I understand it wholeheartedly, and I admit to not giving you the love that you deserve; for I too, am wishing and craving for the same.

It has been a long year. Cassandra is in my life right now, I still speak with Gynger, I still go out on dates, hoping to find someone who complements me well enough, and though I know I've found a lot of what I've always wanted from a woman in Cassandra; I have not found the single most important quality amidst all I have hoped for. The quality of being loved by the person I desire most to be loved by.

I know I can't make someone love me. No matter how hard I try, it will never happen. Despite Cassandra being a lot of what I hope for in a partner for life, she does not love me and I cannot convince myself if she could ever will.

But I realized something important tonight, which is why I am here, my poor neglected blog. I realized how important forgiveness really is, and that as a word by itself, forgiveness is meaningless if you don't understand what it really means.

Forgiveness is understanding. Accepting. Forgiveness can only be given toward something or someone that you understand the actions of, and have accepted it as being part of their nature. Forgiveness means to accept them for who they are, and to know that their actions are a result of some sort of pain in their lives. Oftentimes, it is from fear. The fear of loneliness, of being hurt, bullied, being taken advantaged of, or being taken for granted. Everyone has a fear of something, whether they realize it or not, that they each bring into interactions with other people.  In Cassandra's case, since her father has left her at a very young age; she clearly suffers from the fear of abandonment, and with that, she will always keep me at a distance – emotionally, so as to prevent herself from getting hurt. So that when I do leave her, or break up, or lash out at her because I am angry or frustrated; she will have already mitigated the pain, and has prepared against this scenario from occurring.

So yes, my lonely, sad blog. Feel my fingers once again drumming across your beautiful pages, feeling the rhythm of my words, drinking in the thoughts that I share in private confession, exclusive only to you, my beloved. My blog.

For I do love you, in all these times of sadness and despair and hunger and want. I have always loved you. I will always return to you, for as long as my heart shall beat and my soul continues to stir. Your patience will always be rewarded, should you hold onto faith long enough, I shall always return to you.

My true love.

Now, as I sit astride my chair, wondering the best way to tell you goodbye, I can only wonder, if you and I aren't exactly the same. We both want the same things from life, dear blog. We both want to feel appreciated, anticipated, perhaps even admired.

We certainly each wish to be loved.

I have made your dream come true for tonight.

And I hope that someday, soon, my dreams will come true also.

She is out there, just as I am here. The distance between is nothing more than an illusion.

I must be like you, my courageous blog.

And have patience enough to welcome her arrival.

Take care.

I love you buddy.

The Tortoise & The Hare

I loved reading fairy tales as a boy, checking out armfuls of Jack and the Beanstalk, Aesop Fables, The Paper Bag Princess, Where The Wild Things Are; and so on. Even in my current age of 37 years, I still find wonder and enchantment within these pages. They are more than silly tales to regal your children in bed with, they are cautionary, they inadvertently inspire the practice of virtue and good will when good sense may never hope to prevail.

They are the stories that have made humanity what it is, a testament to the power of his courage and the beauty of her imagination. Should there not have been a hare who was once beaten in a race by a tortoise; then perhaps there wouldn't be children who lack in ability, temperament, desire or ambition to pull themselves up to confident measure by teaching them ways to embrace their hindrances and to transform them into strength.

The stories that we tell ourselves, and our children make us who we are. Who we want to be. Who we want them to be. The stories are patient, only revealing as much as the eyes or ears desire. They brush themselves on our canvas, as we often do ourselves each and every day, painting a picture of how we relate to the world.

So, yes. I am not ashamed to admit that while my love has once waned with age for that which has made me; I am proud to admit now, that what has made me is also something worth laying my life down for.

For there is little more of merit in all of God's green earth, than the unfolding, eternal story of man.

Of who he is.

And who he wants to be.

the grinding of the wheel goes on

Brutal. Spent some time writing and doing edits on some of my chapters today and it's been tough going trying to find my voice. I see glimmers and sparkles of brilliance littered among boring old generic prose and I can't help but feel like my stories are a bit like a panhandler working a stream, sifting out the sand from the gold. I don't want my reader to have to do that. I want the reader to get caught up in a story that is consistent in tone and keeps them engaged, not having to work through the trash in order to get at something worthwhile, it should all be worth their while.

All of it.

But I'm stuck, going from second-person, to third to first and wondering which approach favors me (and my audience) most, and now I'm realizing that I have to take the first-person. My strengths are so obviously in first-person that I don't know why I am banging my head trying to write any different. And I realize that it's because of the audience that is making me so unsure of myself. It's not really personal when I'm writing to solicit attention. It's personal when I am writing to myself.

Then again.. it's the audience that matters more. Isn't it? I guess if art is subjective, it has to come from a place of meaning but at the same time, prepared for public consumption. I think of men like Henry Darger who achieved fame as the face of the Outsider art movement. He wrote a 15 thousand plus epic, along with dozens of paintings and have not shown or even attempted to sell any of what he's produced. It wasn't until he died when his small apartment was cleaned out, that anybody laid eyes on his work. Darger didn't write or paint for money, he did it for himself. He lived a humble existence, rooted in a fantasy of his own and he knew better than to capitalize on it.

Maybe he was embarrassed about it, I don't know, but I do know that people found it fascinating. Would they have been equally as interested had he formally presented his book and artwork? I don't know, and it's possible that Darger himself felt unsure of what he was doing. But he did it anyways, because he had to.

He wanted to. Other people be damned.

This dilemma has been a pervasive one for most of my life, where I have to choose between my own voice and the voice I use when I speak to an audience. Should I die tomorrow, maybe someone will come across this blog, my stories and will see a new me to appreciate more than the me I already am. I don't know. All I know is that I want to do good by what I do. Yet I still have trouble coming to terms with the idea of having a marketable product, because while I do have to eat, I don't want to see my work as being anything less than heartfelt. It's so hard to strike the right balance.

Anyways, I wish I could write a book that would be well-received in THIS voice. The one I am using right now. I like how I write these blog posts, where I am honest and forthcoming and not too worried about any adverbs, descriptive paragraphs, subjects, nouns, verbs, grammar mistakes.. It's so easy and effortless and it brings me a welcome relief from the rigors of having to write well enough to impress. I don't want to impress, and I know I don't have the technical ability enough to do it either, but I do want to share my thoughts and get paid for them...  It's such a mess going through what my head and heart has left for me to clean up. I guess I do want to impress people after all, but how? And how do I do it honestly without resorting to dance around for their amusement?

I don't know. I am such a contradiction. I love myself and hate myself equally at all times. I can't seem to draw forth the man I want to be and present to the world without some ugliness cropping up from inside. Maybe the ugliness is endearing in it's own way, but I am ashamed of it. I don't like feeling vulnerable whenever I pour my emotions out and yet, I need to take responsibility for them, which is not something I'm comfortable doing given how I seem to be in an endless tug of war with myself.

Well. Suck it up I guess. There is no other alternative but to keep hope alive.

Otherwise there's nothing left.

fly me to the moon

One thing I realized a few days ago that has persistently stuck inside of my noggin, is the knowing expectation of society for individual's to contribute. For some reason, I had come about to the knowledge that each of us absolutely has to produce something of value by our efforts in exchange for the right to survive. Whether it's working a hot dog stand, or writing a book, we are rewarded for our efforts and it is not an option to refuse this obligation of us. We are born into these expectations, of adding continual value to our environment and this realization really struck a chord with me.

Sure it seems obvious, common sense even, but I have never looked at a job in quite this way before. I have always thought that I was showing up at a certain time to perform certain tasks and off I went, without a look back. But now I realize that it doesn't have to be this way. I can offer the world value in terms of my thoughts. My ideas and writings each has potential in adding value to the world. I need to believe this more fully, knowing how much I loathe my job. I need to know that there are alternatives out there to how I make money, and writing is but one way of many.

But I have to write. I need to get better at it. Type, type type until these words coalesce into something I can market and sell. At the same time I think about the potential of earning a living from writing, I can't also but help think about how disingenuous it somewhat is. I don't like the idea of churning out a "product" where I share my innermost thoughts and feelings. I don't like the idea of charging people admission to my heart when I have it wide open, ready to receive whoever is interested in looking inside. I like sharing myself freely, I don't feel comfortable charging for it, but at the same time, this is really how the world works. You create something, you sell it. You hustle and connive and market and convince and conform, and cater to the demographic that you aim for and hope you get a reward.

Such monkey talk. I'd feel little satisfaction in having to press a lever to get a banana tumbling down the chute into my hands. I would rather... I don't know. I'd rather write for approval and appreciation. To know that my words were enjoyed, useful and contributed value to the reader rather than take advantage of them, leaving them to feel manipulated.

I don't know.. I guess I'm over thinking this sort of thing. On one hand, I know I have to write FOR an audience and not for myself as I do with these blog posts. But I would rather write for myself and let the audience determine itself. I don't like the idea of targeting a specific group of people, but rather ALL people who are interested are welcome to receive my words.

Ironic of me to write all this, being that this blog is completely private and unavailable for the public to look at. But I do have secrets that only I should keep within myself, and it is somewhat cathartic to let fly a burst of emotional energy through my writing.

That realization also, makes writing a novel tough. It's too structured. Too contingent on delivering a product of mass-appeal. It's too constrictive, too niche, too mainstream... I don't feel comfortable dealing with the dilemma of writing for fun, or for profit and I am trying to do my best to marry the two concepts together. To write for FUN and MONEY is what I am presently trying to aspire towards. I need to feel spurred on as I work on something structured, rather than feeling like a slave to it. I don't know if it's my lack of discipline in what I do, but I can't figure out my voice. My natural voice is in these blog posts, where I write without self-editting myself, where I freely let loose what needs release. I can't seem to find it in writing a novel.. I sort of have, but I don't know if that is the approach best suited to my needs.

It's a silly puzzle. Hopefully one day, I'll solve it.

regrets, I've had a few

Today I took it upon myself to write. I mean really, write. I had a copy of Stephen King's "On writing", Brenda Ueland's "So you want to write", my laptop, my tablet, my phone.

And I wrote a chapter. It was alright. Nothing amazing. But I was guilted into it by King's book who made me feel like if I wanted to write, I absolutely had to. Talking and thinking about writing only serves to prolong the frustration of not actually doing the deed, and I'm okay with that I guess.

But damn, after Jennifer blew off the pages I submitted to her over email a few days ago, I felt I really had to prove to myself that I could write something worthy of praise. Anything, and this sensation of wanting to prove her wrong carried over in my prose, which became a little more descriptive and flowery than usual.

Well, I think I made a dent but I don't think I've yet demolished the wall.

Looking over my blog last night after I posted, I couldn't help but see the same old me whining about the same old things for years on end. "I want to write. I want to love." and all the spiritual/religious talk of which I am still in fascination with to this day.

When will it ever end? When will my breakthrough happen?

I wrestled with the possibility earlier today thinking that I'm just not fit to be a writer. Even if I wrote a book, and I have, there is no guarantee of it being any good. And as I looked over what I had written in the past, I couldn't help but feel embarrassed about how inadequate it all seemed to me. Where was my centerpiece? My one chapter to show off to people? And I realized I didn't have this chapter, and that I've only myself to blame.

That is true. Only myself. If I want something badly enough, I need to push at it. I need to grit my teeth and buckle down and settle into the habit of pursuing a goal as doggedly as I can, no matter what is thrown at me. But I still get these doubts in my head. That I'm not any good. That it's a waste of time trying to pursue a career in this field and that my well of ideas is drying up.

I don't know what to think anymore. For so long I have held onto this dream of mine and I can't let it go, but it feels like I need to. I need to either surrender myself completely to what it is I want to do, or to give up on it altogether.

Writing this blog post, a small inner-voice squeaks out at me to keep going. To keep pushing on, but I can't help but feel like I'm an idiot for having once believed what I did. That I could make something out of myself, on my own steam and I find as the years pass, that the possibility of that happening is growing slimmer with each day.

A writer has to write. A football player has to play football. A musician needs to be playing his instrument, so why aren't I? Why is the goal more appealing to me to think about than the effort to get there? I mean I have to work at it. There is no other option, and a part of me feels like I've already gone over this before many times in my head and I realize that I am numbed to these self-criticisms. I am not spurred to write nearly as much as I would like and...

God damn it. Why bother? Why keep trying?

Those who keep trying, never fail. That's why.

I really want to believe that. I really need to believe that. If I can't write, if I have no talent to offer the world whatsoever, no meaningful commentary to share, then I am worthless. I have nothing. I may as well accept my place in line along with the mediocrity of the rest of us who work jobs that we dislike and indulge in trivialities, like getting drunk, so that we can forget about the dreams we have given up on.

I can't be that guy. But the temptation is still there. To surrender myself to fate and do only what comes effortlessly for me.

Thinking and dreaming.

Not writing.

Not anything else worth being practiced upon.

I am a dreamer caught in a nightmare of my own making.

And I hate it.

that which should not be said

Here we go. I've forgotten when was the last time I put up a new blog entry, but boy, am I way overdue for one.

In the past year, I have been stricken with a kind of intellectual disease, a religious fervor if you will, where I cannot help but consume all manner of religious and spiritual ideas to better realize the experiences I have had occur to me during this period. Everything from the Gnostic Gospels to Philip K Dick's thousand-plus page worth of mindfuckery entitled simply, "Exegesis".

I can't get enough. I can't stop reading. I can't stop watching documentaries on the subject either. It has consumed all interest that was once reserved for video games, flighty SF novels and films involving copious amounts of either gore, nudity or robots that shoot lasers from their eyes.

Because I am aware that this is the internet, I am reluctant to discuss the original impetus for this newfound motivation of mine to better understand my place in the cosmos. Not because I am afraid that someone will read this, but because I have reason to believe that there is something important going on with myself that needs to be kept private until I can first make sense of it. The internet never forgets, and while I do have the option of deleting past entries, I also need to be cautious in regard to data now being mined by the NSA and whoever makes up the Canadian counterpart of an intelligence-gathering organization. Should something ever happen, these words may come back to haunt me if there does indeed exist a database which has profiled me and added this blog to their repository. One can never be too cautious these days, and while common sense tells me that writing offline is what I should be doing, I cannot help but think that there is value in posting this on the internet. For some reason or another, I feel among my paranoia, a sense of duty and blogging these thoughts assist in realizing this. Don't ask me how or why or when, but it would not surprise me should at some point in the future, these words will be examined. Whether that will be to my benefit, or to my detriment, I can only wait and see.

It seems in 2009, a change occurred in me. I had experienced what is known as samadi. A Hindu concept of spiritual awakening where the subject becomes the object (at one with), and the ego gets pushed aside in receipt of a force that, in my opinion, could be considered as spiritual possession where your sense of autonomous direction gets pushed aside in favor of instinctual, or guided processes that appear to result in the appearance of coincidences resolving themselves within a larger framework. Or a higher purpose, if you should subscribe to the notion of pre-destination. It felt as if I was placed on a path that guided me towards greater understandings and richness of meaning, and throughout, I felt as if I were nothing but an observer to this guidance taking place.

In reading William James, "The Varieties of Religious Experience" I have come to skimming through much of the anecdotal of what is described, and instead delving into the meat and potatoes of James's conclusions on the subject. He puts forth criteria that is common among those having experienced a spiritual awakening, and I was none too surprised to find that I have met his definition of it down to each bulletpoint he has listed in this book. Now that I have affirmed the legitimacy of my experiences, I can only take it to the next step and ask myself, why? Why have I experienced what I did? While I am convinced I know of the reasons (according to what James postulates), I am not convinced of the external cause, namely God or some superior intelligence intervening on my behalf so that I could realize some form of divine wisdom which previously had been withheld to me.

I suppose the correct approach is to accept that it just happens. When one hungers enough for truth, it is shown and my bafflement is a result of asking for too much, all at once, where I cannot process it in the way I would like to. The human mind cannot contain the vastness of the universe. To know all that has ever been written, acted, or said. It is an impossibility for an individual to fully hold all that is worth knowing, within the limited properties of his mammalian brain.

Yet, it feels like I have realized truth. That I understand it, and that I have a duty expected of me to honor it. But I what I concern myself with now, is realizing how best to disseminate what I have learned in a format that is easy to read and understand.

So that leads into the book I have written. At the time, while in possesion of this "spirit" and being given heightened faculties and greater depth of perception; I had erroneously assumed the very best of what it was that I was writing, and to become convinced that these words were of extreme importance and had best be handled in as inconspicuous a manner as possible. I honestly felt that what I had written, would blow everything apart at the seams and that the reader would no longer be the same once my words pass into their eyes and into their minds.

Boy, was I ever a schmuck.

In reading what I have written, I cannot help but be both proud, and embarrassed at the quality of what I managed to exhibit. In all these years of craving to become a writer, I had at the completion of my manuscript, felt that this, at the time, was the very best of what I could do. That it had achieved what I originally aspired towards for the particular theme and structure of the story. A review of it, yielded holes and choppy transition. Lots of needless exposition and generally, a poor organization and understanding of the structure a good novel needs in order to become appealing to to the intelligence and imagination of both the reader, and the author. At the time, I was somewhat aware that this book wasn't perfect. I knew I could always go back and fix it up, smooth the rough parts over and that slowly, but surely it will come to as perfect as I could make it.

It has not. Six months later, it has its good and bad and I am at a loss for further inspiration enough to bring it up to the standards I would like to see it at. I am my harshest critic, and it pains me to think that I was able to suspend all sense of reason and taste on the basis that I was in "tune" with a higher power of some kind.

Perhaps I was. But it is this doubt that confounds me. Why is it that I accept the validity of my experiences, but not the result of these convictions? Shouldn't an enlightened person be able to write well? Shouldn't the book be immediately worth publishing being that I wrote it in such a heightened state of mind? What exactly was I experiencing, if not communion with the holy spirit? Or some spirit?

That is what troubles me at the moment, to accept the notion that while I did have something extraordinary happen, I cannot for the life of me understand why it was that the book turned out the way it did. It calls into question the possibility that I was not in communion with anything outside myself, but myself. Then should I accept that possibility, I had to try and understand the why of it. Why has my senses sharpened themselves? Why did I feel so grossly inflated in terms of perceptual acuity and if this was me responsible, how can I come to terms with it? How can I ever believe in spirituality, if I deluded myself somehow and that these experiences were not a result of some holy visitation, but a part of my mind that decided to flip some rarely-used switches and transformed how I perceived everything? How can I rationalize the irrational?

I suppose that is where I am at the moment. I truly believe that everything has a reason, and there is purpose in the minuscule and mystical ways of being. My faith pulls me one way, and my reason, another in this endless game of tug of war that I am caught up in playing. There is no resolution to be had and the struggle, the journey will always exist between truth and deception. There can be no confirmation of one side or another, save for what one's intuition accepts, and even that is a wild notion in of itself. To surrender oneself to intuitive understandings, is to risk loss of reason and rational behaviour. There must be a balance that I am comfortable enough to live my life with, and I am in the most uncomfortable place at the moment.

Throughout all my questions and doubts, I can only hold a few ideas sacred. Principles that can never be violated, and one of them involves that there is a God in the universe. A creator, and that it is my responsibility to be able to discover how it is that I relate to this being, and what role is expected of me. That, to me is inarguable. There is no doubt in my mind, that there is a greater intelligence out there that has created all of what we see and know. But what is my relation to it? What is my duty to it? And should I realize answers to these questions, what is my reward for placing trust in such a deity? Should I not expect a reward for surrendering my will to it? Because I truly felt as if I have, and the results were not as satisfactory as I would have liked them to be.

So then, what is the point? If all the faith I can muster, all the courage and strength in the world results in my living an unhappy, loveless life working at a job that I hate, then what good is having faith? Why should I persist in cultivating it? Why do I continue to keep trying, knowing that at some point, my efforts will be in vain?

No matter how hard I try, faith doesn't seem to make any difference other than to pull me further into doubt, into more questions that I feel apprehensive about finding answers for; and the ridiculous part of it all, is the idea that I still believe. I still believe, no matter what happens to me, I still believe that there is a God out there and that I am in his good graces somehow. Somehow.

Maybe I am only seeing the forest for the trees and that inevitably at some point in my life, my sufferings will be looked on as having been necessary for what it is that I want most out of this world.

Love. Just to love and be loved. Who the hell would say no to that request? Why would God? Why would I? And it seems that the more I struggle towards those two things, the more elusive they become, the more frustrated I get and the more hopeless I feel. Then I hit bottom, and I somehow pull myself out of the abyss using nothing other than faith, which is almost annoying in it's tenacity to latch on; and I go back to repeating the same patterns that I have been all my life.

The worst part of all this, is the awareness. The knowing. The shame and liberation that awareness brings has been of little service to me when at this stage in my life, I should have long realized the mistakes I have been making which has kept me from getting what I want.

What I need. And I am reminded of Buddhism, that all life is suffering and while I cannot help but agree and yet, I still believe it is possible to forge a better me out of these fires I have burned myself in. That against all odds, everything will be okay. Even if much of my life has proven little in the way of an evolving of perspective that directly benefits and improves my worth as a human being.

It's all such a fucking tangled ball of yarn.

Who else but me can fix it?

Who else but me.

Right?

the lies I live in

It's been a tough go of it lately in dealing with my depressive feelings and it's made even more so by my recent introduction to a new job.

There's something disheartening about being unable to connect with other people the way I used to. All smiles, jokes and laughter -- I was proud of the way I handled myself and looked forward to spirited conversation with the nearest person I could find.

No longer.

It seems like I'm chasing a ghost these days. The more I slide off the peak of my moods, the more I dream of the past, the more sad I get.

Because I remember how it used to be. In the same sense that a widower might, having lost the one she loved.

In a way, I'm grieving. On occasion I pound with balled fists upon the chest of my seemingly dead self, hoping to bring it back to life once more -- and it just lies there, motionless and looking up at me with these cold, dead eyes that I'm afraid to peer into.

I'm reminded at the moment of how much I love my melodrama. It's suited me well in the past. Both with writing and in relationships. With my ability to exaggerate, I was able to leverage it into a talent for story telling and it also functioned as a means to hone the edge of my feelings. I would feel emotion more intensely than the average person would, and I'd revel in that.

And that melodrama hasn't quite died yet I don't think. I see it in the words I am typing at the moment, words I've typed elsewhere and the occasional joke that escapes my lips all are drenched in this secret sauce of mine. I look at the topic title for this post and go, "huh. that doesn't quite pertain to what I'm writing about, but maybe it will reach that conclusion at some point."

It just seems like I thrive on drama and I wonder if in a sense, that has been my undoing. In addition to the continued deterioration of my capacity to hear other people well to hold a stable conversation without having to strain at their words.

But if drama is the problem I'm facing. That incessant need for wanting to make more of something than there really is -- then what would I end up being without it?

A soulless husk. A shell.

Wouldn't I be?

There's always something sad to remark upon when hearing stories of people who have reached great heights, whether personal or outwardly in nature -- only to have fallen down to a pit that they don't seem able to extract themselves from. Our society enjoys a good, poignant drama involving the human condition and I am a more guilty victim of this than it seems most are.

It's not that I care so much about the triumphs and failures of celebrities that I'll never meet who I read about on the cover of gossip rags while waiting in line at the grocery store -- it's that I care about the people that are close to me. Every one of their triumphs is a bit of a triumph for myself. Every one of their failures, is something that I feel partially responsible and saddened by.

I think some would call this empathy, and if that's what my condition can be described as, then I wouldn't argue against this particular bit of judgement.

Except, I don't know if it was just empathy that has sustained me through the best and worst of times. I think it was more than just sympathy for my fellow man.

I think it was something along the lines of respecting the natural order of things and believing in it enough to feel inspired by it.

I think I just had a lot of faith in the notion of there being a spiritual democracy of sorts that governed the world and interactions at large. That we vote unconsciously towards the world we want to live in and that a governing body would tally up these ballots and implement the change we wish to see.

But as I get older, I'm starting to doubt the existence of such a system being in place.

Maybe that's what depresses me most. Knowing that all the faith I might have in the world, is all for naught. That faith is nothing more than wishful thinking and that my sphere of influence is so minuscule that I may well be rendered impotent.

When I was a wide-eyed child looking upon this world with equal parts fear, awe and respect; there was a good deal of obstacles that stood in the way of this view of mine. That we are all one and the rules are fair as well as being open to negotiation whether it be through prayer, or devotion towards a particular cause.

In short, I thought faith alone was all I really needed. To believe in myself and that I wouldn't get fucked over for any of it.

Well, the years have eroded away such a naive notion and has left me with a great deal of uncertainty.

One thing I am thankful for however, is that I can still write down my thoughts in a fair amount of illuminating detail. I can still write. But that muse.. the muse is about as fickle as a mistress in the best of times and as conspicuous as a shadow during the worst.

I NEED to finish my book. My novel is still sitting at around 200 pages on chapter 30 and it doesn't feel anything close to being finished.

It's already been a year and a half since I started writing it.

I've been going backwards instead of forwards, mainly because of how daunting a challenge it really is to write a book. There's no passion behind these fingers of mine at the moment and when I think about how I managed to write 200 pages in the first place -- I'm reminded that I was under pressure to perform.

Maybe that's the problem with me right now. I'm not pressuring myself enough. I like complaining and talking about "writing a novel" more so than actually doing it. But it's not like I don't think my book has a chance and should be tossed out with the trash; I really do think it has a good shot at becoming something quite compelling.

It's just that.. I've lost either faith in it, or .. No, I haven't lost faith if I'm still continuing to talk about it. No, I think I've only .. no, I haven't lost faith in myself either.. So what is it? What's causing this blockage of my imagination? Why is my will not being done?

Maybe because I'm scared. Scared that all that hard work is going to amount to nothing. That it won't be appreciated. It won't make any money. And all I'll have is 300-400 pages of drivel that I've spent over a year and a half worrying and talking about.

I don't know. Or maybe I'm just scared of the work involved because I'm not assured of what the results of finishing it would be.

I don't fucking know anymore.

It's amusing to me how much I've been typing in this blog post when I know that applying this same amount of effort towards the novel would yield more productive results.

But that's a question I wonder about. Maybe my inner-most thoughts need to be exposed, examined and written down first before I can move on with the book. Maybe self-examination is the key to discovering the enthusiasm I've been hoping to reclaim.

God damn is this ever hard to figure out.

What is this post? 1,100 words?

Could've been half of a chapter already.

It's Sunday night and I need to prepare myself for work tomorrow morning. Where I'll face the usual difficulties in connecting with others and continuing along with my sullen self, watching imagination evaporate as I rip off insulation from piping for ten hours in freezing weather.

There must be a better way.

I might find it just yet.

kathy.

I guess I kind of have to.

This is Kathy, whom I had a relationship with last year. That picture was taken in my car on the way home from the flea market we've left.

I got her that Domo doll.

I still miss her and I don't.

I wish things could have been different.

chillingly compelling

My mind is going off on one of it's moments of pure introspection at the moment, and as I am thinking, making several observations of my life; I'm realizing that these thoughts will remain vaporous and likely will be forgotten should I not write them down.

That's a sobering reality right there, writing stuff down is what makes my thoughts permanent. Which gives them substance, and allows for future extrapolation, expansion and exploration of these ideas I'm having.

Why can't I get that truth through my thick skull? Why has my creative processes dried up and my love of writing rusting itself over like a hammer left outside for several years?

And as I think about it, I'm realizing it has so much to do with fear. Being afraid of letting myself go head first into something that will consume my attention and passion -- but not guaranteeing the success of its reception, or achieving a sustainable living by it.

I think those are my biggest fears, wasting my time writing. People write every single day on blogs, twitter, Facebook, message boards, short stories, long stories, technical reports, essays and a few have even written entire books. Not just one, or two, but dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Some of them do it while they work full time, some even become successful.

That's something which troubles me to no end. Knowing the difficulty in producing something meaningful and then not being assured of it's success. It's kind of like spending a year of your life building a canoe that you hope will take you to a destination far greater and prosperous than the space you are presently inhabiting, but not having a map to really know where you're going.

Writing professionally, has terrified me, resigned me and now appears to have disinterested me just because I now am fully aware of how incredibly difficult it would be to achieve something of merit given the tens of thousands of other people like me who are hoping for that same pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Who really gives a shit about what I think? That has been the driving mantra behind my stagnation this past year. Who would truly appreciate what I hope to accomplish by my work? And more importantly, can I craft something worthy of being inducted into the public consciousness? Can I produce something of merit?

Can I do it if I push myself as hard as humanly possible? Do I have it within me? Is there something inside that will switch on and create something amazing? Do I believe in myself enough to pull it off?

Can I ever pull it off?

And that is where my insecurities come to light. My weaknesses are raw and exposed whenever I entertain such notions. I'm reminded of the moments in my past where impulsive behaviour and good intentions resulted in the birth of a  monstrosity that I am ashamed to acknowledge.

I speak of the two manic episodes I've had in my life. But I am not sure if they are topics I wish to address in this post.

I spend a lot of time consuming books on achieving your potential, how to win friends & influence people. Hawaiian Shamanism. What The Bleep Do We Know? Promethesus Rising. The biography of Aleister Crowley and the Satanic Bible. I have recently picked up two books that have piqued my interest. One is a compilation of essays/stories by C.S. Lewis which deals in morality and the other is The Art of Mastery by Robert Greene.

Why am I troubling myself by continuing to read these books, hoping for some flash of insight that will glue together the broken pieces inside and make me whole  when I know that I already have the answers that I seek.

I already know what to do and yet I fail to do it.

Plato's dialogue on Menos expressed the idea of remembering what we have forgotten as far as the process of learning goes. He postulates the vastness of wisdom to exist in a nebulous realm that can be accessed by every man, woman and child. Some New Agers describe it as the Akashic Records, a repository of all that was and all that will be. Others slap the label intuition on and argue that our subconsciousness sometimes reaches informed conclusions faster than our rational minds can -- if we should trust and recognize such processes.

That's been a big problem for me, ever since having these two manic episodes to know exactly what is genuine, sincere intention acting on wisdom; and what is nothing more than a fanciful exaggeration of my ego.

It's been so hard trying to separate fact from fiction that I am bewildered by it to the point that being non-commital is easier than choosing a side.

But perhaps, we should take sides. No matter how much of reality is subjective, maybe drawing a line in the sand and abiding by certain principles is the most effective way to be.

I don't know and yet, somehow I do know.

Goddamn you Akashic Records. Floating up in space somewhere, holding all the keys to the locks that I can never figure out how to open.

There have been so many books out there, so many competing ideologies and doctorines and theories that it's difficult to figure out where to stand on any of these. Or if I should have to. But living the life I've lived for so long, should have taught me the necessity of sticking by principles and yet I fail to carry forth a personal philosophy that elevates my sense of hierarchy in this life.

I realize by now at this point, the most accurate truth I can feel confident enough in stating -- is that I absolutely know nothing.

No matter how much I learn about a subject, there will always be someone saying, "but what about this?" and presents an argument worth serious consideration. There will always be a principle or fact that can be called into question and argued for or against.

So with that in mind, how can I choose sides? Why should I have to choose anything?

I'm sure had I subjected this problem to some other thinkers, I will receive a number of responses that offer multiple perspectives but nothing that can universally be agreed upon.

Atheists these days will snort at the idea of there being a God while Christians defend their faith.

Agonistics are ridiculed for not choosing a side, while Paganists are laughed at.

The sky may be black right now above my head, but it's a blue, sunny color over in another part of the world.

String theory may or may not be viable. Simulation theory may or may not be viable.

Black holes contain universes which contain other univereses that go onward to infinity. Yet, science have yet to present conclusive evidence for or against the idea of infinity.

Love is this intangible emotion and carries with it so many meanings that it can be difficult to settle upon just one.

Others say that love is nothing more than instinctual conditioning and is produced by a chemical secreted inside of our minds.

Many people claim selfishness to be the greatest of all evils, others would pronounce ignorance, and still others will claim selfishness to be paramount and others will spout that ignorance is "bliss".

One thing for sure is, nobody has all the fucking answers. Or everybody does, yet choose to ignore them.

So what do I make of all this? Should I or should I not draw that moral line in the sand and live a principled and structured life adhering to convictions of mine which may or may not be correct?

One thing that I am curious about, is the necessity of having convictions. We absolutely need convictions, rock-hard truths that enable us to allay our feelings of doubt and helplessness.

In essence, we deeply desire and require the need to live a life that makes sense. Even if it's just to ourselves and not others.

Yet, convictions are a byproduct of faith. Faith is essentially a suspension of disbelief and it walks hand in hand with conviction without becoming mutually exclusive to one another.

We need faith to survive.

Yet, where should we place it? How will we know that a certain idea or thought deserves to take prominence within our lives?

That is the great mystery to me.

With that tangent having been played out, I must return to my original thoughts.

Can I produce something worthwhile that will benefit both myself, and others? Even if it's purely for entertainment purposes? A well-told story.

I don't know. But I really want to.

Two hundred plus pages of Puer Aueternus: The Electric Messiah sits quietly in the corner glaring at me with the white of its eyes.

I love maybe 40% of it. It's some of the best stuff I have ever written.

And it sits there, uncomplaining but neglected. Like a loving pet that you simply don't have time to give the attention it deserves.

That's where my shame comes from. Part of it anyways. And this emotion has me locked in a loop of negativity that is so difficult to break through from.

Because I don't know if it's worth pursuing.

I don't believe enough in myself to know that it's going to be great.

I'm too ashamed of myself to feel confidence. And too unintelligent to know how to change.

Or maybe I just haven't found a compelling enough reason to push myself forward. It would have to be something inspiring that transcends the need for money, or admiration.

God, I'm so close to figuring out what it might be, but I'm not really sure of it yet.

To give the book away for free has crossed my mind more than once. That is a painless and benevolent action on my part. To just let my words find the eyes that can appreciate them without the barrier of payment.

But I would still be working a shitty job and living a sad, lonely single life.

I don't want to give up. If I'm still reading self-help books, then I know there's still something inside of me that is fighting to be set free.

I'm just afraid of what that might be.

the past is a stain

It's not going well. Since my time with Leah last November, I couldn't bring myself to dating someone new. Not until that wound had healed all the way through.

Well, last night I took a leap and went out with Karen whom I met on eHarmony.

I'll repeat, it didn't go well.

The initial meeting was okay. She had a nice smile, I felt comfortable but nervous. It was serviceable for about an hour until..

Four people crashed the party.

I'm still kind of.. amused by it. Basically, there weren't any other tables available and these four people asked to sit next to us -- occupying the entire table, on our first date. They apologized for it initially and when it was jokingly said, "I hope it's not your first date.." I had to laugh and confirm it was. The table went into an uproar.

After that initial revelation, these four people talked among themselves as they knew one another and had that chemistry established, but all I could do was nervously sip at my beer with Karen next to me and hoped she would finish soon enough for us to leave.

Well, it didn't go that way. She ordered another drink and struck up a conversation with the girl across from her.

They went on for a good hour at least and I was left holding the bag, Interjecting a few words here and there but ultimately not really doing much of anything. I gave her a hopefull glance out across the street and I don't think Karen picked up on the hint. Eventually, she really struck a chord with that one particular girl and I was excluded altogether from the conversation.

So, there I was, trying to keep my nerve while listening to these girls gossip and unable to say a thing. Once Karen suggested we go for a cigarette, a spasm of relief washed over me as I explained how much I sucked at being in groups -- particularly when I don't know a single person there. She said she didn't have any problems connecting and I nodded my head knowing that it wasn't anyone's fault really.

Except mine.

I guess with the time I spent away from dating, it really caught up to me how ill-prepapred I was to handle conversation. Group conversation more specifically. It doesn't help that I had hearing issues to begin with, but I didn't know how to integrate myself regardless of whether I was hearing every word spoken or not.

The chatter was mindless. I couldn't get interested about any of it.

And as I apologized to Karen and gave her a kiss, thanking her for meeting up -- I walked away wondering if this is how it is everywhere. That conversation for conversation's sake is commonplace.

It was disheartening for me to accept that it probably is. And that I might not ever be good enough at participating in these kind of get-togethers.

As I got home, I just kind of.. felt drained. Drained of life. Like.. Almost as if I accepted the void within me and wrapped myself up snugly with it.

It didn't feel reassuring at all. It almost felt like an infliction of shame upon my person.

But what other option is there? Quiet acceptance is better than self indignation isn't it? The more I allow myself to get angry, the .. Well.. Maybe anger is the proper motivator here, but how? How do I get myself more in line with what I would like to be? How do I bring myself to feeling good about the way I am and how my life is going?

I.. can't.

I always used to hear that things could be worse. That there are people in x country who are suffering more than I am and I should be grateful for what I already have. And that is true, in a way of saying "Boy, am I glad I'm not in a North Korean Death Camp" but.. it doesn't change the fact that I have a real problem that needs solving.

It doesn't change the fact that I am unhappy. First world problem or not.

Could I adjust my expectations to accept my life and my being the way they are? To make do with what I have and to not want/need things like a good relationship? A rewarding career? Loyal friends? A loving family? Money?

I could adjust. But should I? Should I settle for this? Is it even an option, or could I be more? Could I achieve more?

More importantly, do I think I deserve more in life?

Yes. My mind would speak. Yes, I do.

What fucking hurts most, is already knowing this but not being convinced that I can create a better life beyond what I already have.

If anything had damaged me most from my upbringing, it would be that twisted sense of entitlement my mother had fostered within me. The second most hurtful thing, was not being given direction. Not being believed in enough to think that my goals were realistic and worth striving towards.

No. It was, "you need to get a job." after graduation. There was no interest in post-secondary education within my family. The relationship  I had with my father throughout my mid to early-twenties, was non-existant. My mother was as clueless as I was, with what to do with securing my place in the world. The only person who spoke out, was my stepdad who got me into insulating. And even then, it was more like "post-secondary? pfft! you shouldn't bother. Get into the trades."

But, I can't keep blaming the past. No matter how it affected my life. No matter how much it still is affecting my life.

No matter how much I am haunted by it.

No matter how much I still think of this woman:

Even before Leah...

Before Lauren...

And before Michelle...

I had to have fallen in love with Tina.

And that's a whole other blog post.

I'm tired.. I'm done. 

At least for now.

First world problems.