alternatively maybe i am just like every other predominately straight guy a committment phobic arsehole? maybe i'm more married to the idea of control and power and privelege than i like to think and pretend? maybe i'm just being too honest and harsh on myself and too scared of following my heart through? maybe i'm just over rationalising? maybe i'm on a course trying to alienate everyone so i can be left alone by myself to wallow in self pity and to live out a dark and violent heart. to place the blame on the world as a means of not taking responsibility for my own actions. maybe i'm really self centred and narcissitic like all wannabe artists? maybe i'm just full of shit and should just shut the fuck up? maybe i'm to aware of the fact that ultimately every moment ends and can never be recaptured and i'm living in permanent mourning over this? i don't fucken know. this is so nihilistic and confusing it's infruiating but i guess at least it's honest. enjoy the poem. fuck the preamble.
THE COMFORT OF WORDS (two portraits)
a world where
Sara is not
and I am not
the arsehole who