jealousy

Here we are again, so that I can whine.

Ah, the internet, so much like God.

There to talk to when you know nobody really wants to here about your many faults or miseries.
Or when the things you have to say feel so wrong as they cross your lips that you can't bare to say them to another human being.

I feel jealous. Jealous of someone who I would have considered morally in the wrong not long ago, and perhaps still do, for the hazy things I imagine he did with because I know things went on and she's told me the general flavour of the occurrence. I'm jealous of the morally wrong things he might have done, the things that I wanted and still want to do. It's interesting how the mix of alcohol and someone feeling sad made me follow her around like a puppy dog.

Talking to her about the one she was jealous of and how she had "liked" him for quite some time. How she thought they were making out and was jealous when in fact he was explaining that he was too old for the one she was jealous of. A conversation repeated when he returned inside and she snapped at him before heading outside. A conversation I would no longer engage in if engaged by her, though I think I might be a year older than he is. I saw the hicky she gave the one I am jealous of. She said today that she regretted not going to bed before 5:30, citing that she was tired. I had heard the same comment yesterday, the day after the party. But today she added that she probably would have taken him to bed had she done so earlier and that she had still wanted to even at the late hour. Something I thought she was still to young to consider.

I think she suspects my sickness. I have broken the personal space bubble many times in our sibling like bothering of one another. I think she suspects why. We are effectively siblings for the next four months. She lays in bed not more than 30ft from me while thoughts of us torture me in the minutes before sleep.

I used to think I was just a sad person who kept on thinking there was something wrong with him when really he was normal. So worried and ashamed that I was normal and just wasn't coping well. I suppose I'm like the poet man in that sense. Yet now there is definitely something very fucking wrong with me. I've been waiting for it to manifest itself for years. No matter how many times I've vented the bottle I keep it all in has ever increased in pressure. Now it bulges into my mental visibility. Threatening rupture, though not yet.

And yet it seems that every normal person I meet has had feelings and thoughts that lust after suicide at one point or another. That's what it is: a lust. A strong and carnal lust to take pleasure without regard for those others it would affect. I know one day I'll give in. No it wont be today, nor tomorrow, almost certainly not this year. But for years I've known that eventually I'm going to do it. It's an eventuality, one that I'm always putting off for the sake of those around me. "Suicide is one of the most selfish acts a person can undertake" is the contention of my mother and the ideal that kept me on that fourth story balcony all those years ago, that and the fear that I would survive.

Now I hope I haven't given too much away. For her to know would undermine the trust I'm trying to build for legitimate reasons. She says her parents didn't want her at birth an probably still don't, she's met the people she was almost given away to. I want to fix her. God damn it why do I always want to fix people with kisses? Because it actually gives me the power, respect and mutual trust to shape them into the better image I see for them, that's why, that's clearly why, I only asked because it's causing problems. Her and her mother bicker and bitch at each other far too much. It only makes both of there lives more difficult why don't they see that? Or if they do then why not act on it?

It's all in my head, or so Kerrie said to me the one time it got out and I dragged my limbs across her clothing willing it to be gone, only to have her tell me no and me to revert to a tear drenched mess curled in the fetal position on my bed. Not because she wouldn't have me but because I had let him out in an attempt to be rid of him. All in my head.

If only I could cut it out.

No Kerrie and I aren't broken up. No I haven't spoken to her about this yet. No I don't want you to tell her.
No I'm not satisfied with our relationship anymore. No I'm not ready to give it up yet. No I'm not dangerous.
No I'm not smart. No I'm not cool. No I don't fit in anywhere. No, most don't find out any of this out about me.

I wear a very convincing mask for the greater good. I remain in a somber logical mood nearly always for the greater good.

I'm not trying new drugs for the greater good though. It was stupid and I rationalize that its to get the young and reckless out of my system so I can become old and wise but I suspect that I'm really doing it in a hope of getting anything into my system that will cause it to stop functioning the was it has for all these semi-miserable years.

I'm a revolting piece of shit, but aren't we all. Maybe only through my eyes.

I just want that first feeling of love again. Of fresh love. Of love before I had had sex. Of that pure and strong new desire to be around someone just because they make you feel better. They make you feel like the world is wonderful and inspire you with hope that maybe you can actually make a difference in it. That you can make it a better place. Not the quiet, loving companionship and trust that has taken three years to build and I am taking extraordinarily excessive advantage of, but the new, edgey, unsure, you-and-me-can-take-on-the-world-and-win kind of excitement.

I don't want to go into physics. It's the most interesting thing I've ever even considered but it wont make me happy. I should be out in the world trying to make a difference. Trying to improve the quality of the shitty lives so many human beings live. Yet pragmatically I don't want to save lives because I know that the more people alive the more impossible it will be to improve the general quality of life. It's quality not quantity.

I'm a sad, disturbed little boy who still can't bare the thought of growing up but finds himself in the skin and mindset of a twenty year old every morning.

I have betrayed the morals I held for so long. I have betrayed the trust of one who I still dearly love. I have betrayed my potential to dedicate myself to helping other people on this planet. I have betrayed you, for though I post this on public forum I don't want anyone to know. to know of this wretched thing that I am. I just need someone to know but I plead you tell no-one else. I betray the parts of me that are screaming and begging that I not post this.

Finally I feel the tears flow freely, though only briefly, and I know they will abate far too soon. See all done. I know they haven't helped. People say you feel better after a cry, but I think it is only another coping mechanism which will not relieve the pressure inside me. Now though I do feel better, temporarily, my mistress Misery leaves to freshen up in the washroom while I put on my public face.

Yet she was the one who penned my poetry, when I could still write it. Now lack of practice caused by lack of desire brings me regret. Misery will no longer make love with me, but lays in bed and hopes in these brief moments I will again clamor atop her and show some kind of prowess to alleviate her boredom. Instead I lay and talk, wishing she were more convincing in her act of innocence. She is dirty, bored, and without a pure desire anymore, just like me.

Well, back to the mask and the mirror. Maybe I'll believe myself this time.