I think after 34 years and 5 days, I should be more content.

More able to cope, to handle the muddy reality in which I exist.

The days I spend, in front of a mirror, never clear, what I am about.

Could I change into a bird - a colorful one that sees oceans daily - and leave it all behind?

I would...except for the thing I have: reality holding on to me.

My hair grows thinner, my waist not so much, and the thing is, I dislike myself.

I had only two women I cared about in that way of ways yet I doubt they ever thought about me at all in that way of ways.

Could I blame them? Surely not. But the dream is to be loved for yourself - just can't help that myself isn't all that lovable...

When I see the horizon, I see pain. The oneness, the sameness of the sky and ground running into each other, never sure which way they are to be, to each other.

The problem with painting a picture is the image: it will change daily, minutely, every second of its existence. We may not see it, but it does.

I don't change. Well, I do, but I don't see it. The miracle is hoping someone else sees it, maybe they listen, and maybe...they care.