Hey, hey.

I laugh in the face of your hasty decisions and deeply-rooted jokes. They did not sway me today, though I thought they could sway me well. I didn't think I would recover.
Is it possible to, simultaneously, fixate and not give a fuck at the same time?

People are split into parts. Not halves, as some would dictate, but parts. Facets: timeless and infinite. Representative of many things. Parts of them, maybe. For every impulse or glance or fleeting desire, there lies a separate version of yourself. Billions, correct? More than that. Countless versions of who you thought to be one entity. Now, for every one of these infinite selves, a past, a present, and a future... Not to mention everything in between. Fractions of time and space and feeling.

I missed all of someone, a while ago. If you think about how many people I was missing by missing one whole person, you can likely imagine how heavy my heart was. Now, I have discovered something: I did not miss that one whole person, just a fraction. Whether it is a fraction of me or him is yet to be determined. I could easily be missing myself, right now. Rightly so, I seem to be on vacation. Or maybe something less frivolous, I don't like to imagine myself skipping out on me for a colada and some oiled men. Maybe I'm buried under the silt of my eighteen years, patiently waiting to be unburied. I'm close now, though... Like I can see the dust of my breath rising as I dig myself out from above with my bare hands.

My cat is smiling. Cats smile a lot. I wonder what they know that I don't that inspires them to be so content all the time, simply snoozing and stretching and smiling. Even when I am just laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, I am not smiling. Maybe I should be. They're in on some joke or savvy to some truth that has them fundamentally content. It's as if it's their default emotion... Unless they're hungry or frightened or irritated, they are happy. Me, I'm different. My default emotion is probably wide-eyed patience.

There is always something coming to guide me by the hand. I get scared and panicked sometimes, because it's as though my future becomes this gray, soupy blob of chaotic nonsense. If I don't have a direct course, I sink into what can only be defined as the grays. The blues are too luminous, too serene to describe the feeling. Gray is as background and removed as a dried spoonful of oatmeal under the fridge, where no one can even want to pay attention to it.
Depressing, no? Existential oatmeal... Ooh, that has meme potential. Don't tell anyone.

Where is love?! Somewhere. Apparently it is as perennial as the grass. Desiderata told me that... I don't know what perennial means, but it seems fitting. I'd like a well paying job, soon... I've got to figure out how to make my dreams come true. Sounds drastic, but my dreams don't involve castles or princes or dragons (though I'm lying about them not involving dragons).
Mostly they just involve a VW Cabriolet and the open road to Boston. The post script on my dream involves a positive response and acceptance to my letter that I'm going to send to my favorite actor, Chris Lowell. I am so very tired... At least my words are flowing. That's nice.