I haven't been coming around so much lately. I've met someone. Well, some ones.

We've had our moments, but let's not kid ourselves anymore. Undoubtedly you've known all along that I was just using you, pouring my frustrations and joys and paltry agonies into you, knowing that you would stare back blankly with your little blinking cursor and that I would find comfort in that. But I don't need to funnel my soul into a text box anymore, and truth be told, you never even came close to getting my soul anyway.

I'm tired of having to articulate the ineffable and incomprehensible into linear thought. I'm tired of pretending that what is in actuality psychological kicking and screaming and dancing and wanting and needing and loving and hating and hungering and desiring can be contained in neatly formulated paragraphs. I'm tired of intellectual resolution. I'm tired of words.

I'm tired.

I'm so fucking bored with my mind and with sterile, cold thought and distance and walls and shutting myself off from the world and harboring my own private little tragedy. Life is too short to bask and revel in my own private little tragedies and to build up walls and wait for people to tear them down, resorting in the meantime to marring the clean whiteness of a page or pecking at a keyboard and pretending that it is significant in any way. I don't have time for this shit, and I don't have time for you.

I need to be near the people I care about and to hug and to punch and to make love and to let people see me cry. Words are such bullshit inadequate crutches that I have become too apathetic to you to even finish composing a proper fuck off.

So, it's been real. Now fuck off. Not the darling two or three of you who read, you are still beautiful and clever and impeccably marvelous in every way, but to codified introspection itself, public and private, I've had my fill of you.

The End.