When you're young, every horrible and heartbreaking thing that happens to you feels like it's the end of the world. Most people would tell you that as you grow older, you get over it and realize the foolishness of youth. I won't lie to you.

In a lot of ways, this is the end of my world.

Life is a process that we're all continually trying to perfect. But what's the sense in perfecting an imperfect art? It's an impossibility, a contradiction, an oxymoron—emphasis on the moronic.

Today, things could be better. I could feel differently. I could be someone else.

I'm stuck with myself.

But I'm not alone. No, that would be idealistic and nothing idealistic ever happens when you really, really need it to. I'm trapped inside my own head, but your face and voice are here with me. They're here to poison the way that I look at the rest of the world and the people in it. They're here to stop me from moving on, forward. The memories of you and desires I had reach out and wrap their fingertips around my wrists, pulling me back, down, and again.

The thing is; I want to let them.

I'd rather live in my fantasy world with you than in the real world with someone else, someone new. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing, in the exact same way, while expecting a different result. I've been pretty insane lately. I play through the exact same scenes and moments in our lives, with exactly the same thoughts, and I expect us to be somewhere different than where we are.

So, instead of getting into something I'm not sure should be gotten into, I think that I will sojourn alone for awhile. Well, awhile longer, anyway. And maybe in the end, it's better this way. Maybe when the time comes, I'll be ready—I'll want to move on and be able to do so. Or, I'm just waiting for a different result of a similar and familiar action.

That is closer to truth. But I will forget, one day. I've done so in the past—moving from familiar to different and that difference became familiar. I know that it's possible. I also know that in my current situation and state—I don't have the desire to make this difference familiar. And if that is truly the case, wouldn't it be better to end things now rather than to progress in a familiar direction only to be alienated when it doesn't work out—or rather, when I reveal the lack of desire for it to go further?

Because, if we're wasting time—we're wasting space and the two are interchangeable. There is no space in my traitorous heart for someone else and thus, I don't have the time for it either. And I believe that from the beginning—I had my answer.

Know thyself. It's something I pride myself on. And pride has always been both my downfall and the foundation on which I stand.

So what now? Now that I've pondered, analyzed and philosophized this situation to death? Do I make the call currently and presently, speeding along the process of destruction and excommunication? Do I wait until the next interchange occurs and find a more presentable time? Do I do nothing and hope that it will, in time, reveal itself for the ugly and deceitful beast that it is?

I'm not sure. And honestly, in this very second, I don't care. I need music, the arms of a friend, and possibly, a cigarette.

And now, I'm back where I started—turning my back on the seemingly sensible to go my own way and make mistakes. To thine own self be true. And so I shall.