Control

It's 5:05am. My head hurts. Yet I still fathom the feeling of writing. As if it is a cancer I cannot ever rid of. I don't even know what I plan on writing most of the time. I wonder if I am lonely, at times in the day I do not understand others, as if I am not one of them. I guess that we all feel we are truly alone in the world, after all no one could ever peer completely into our imagination. I think if one would, I fear they would find more of a mess than originally seen from the outside, like a morbid and deplorable flesh fest. I think we are less alike, because I choose to be, yet no matter how far I choose to perceive myself, I am one in the same with humanity. At times I wish I wasn't, like some alien from a distant planet chosen to pretend to be human. Maybe it is the hole that lumbers within my soul, oh how I cry with agony and misery for it to be quelled! But alas, it can never be, not for someone like me. I want to love it, I want to love the agony, the pain, the loneliness. It is a strange statement, to want to love something that hurts. Until I learn to live within the confines of sadness, and pain I am afraid I won't be able to fully live. Everything may turn bland, and grey but my soul, let it hold the warm glow of infinity.