Where to from here?

I know loneliness like the back of my hand, it's either a gentle caress from a lamb or a strange sinking sensation at the base of my stomach. Despite the amount of warmth I brought towards those who I admired and loved, I did create these massive, overwhelming gas fires that burned me - hands, face and all.

So I sit in my room, and play chess, and draw pictures, and listen to music, and eat, and stretch out the knot in my left shoulder, and I wait for someone to tell me it'll be okay. I wait for my mother to be a mother, my father to be a father. I wait for love to clasp its teeth around my ankles and say "not this time!" and drag me far beneath.

I don't know when the need for obsession turns into pure selfishness. But I need an object of admiration who I haven't held yet, haven't molded into its unrecognizable form. I do have this tendency, to hold a body so close to me that its very muscle and skin shifts with every embrace, and once I have let it down to die, I can't seem to find my lover's face anymore. Just the remnants of ideas, the remnants of what I might've wanted, once upon a time.

The biggest issue in my life right now is that I have no idea if I have any real friends. I can think of a few who I have spent time with, who seem to be amicable with me, but in essence, I don't really communicate with many people in a way that matters. I place bets on far away horses hoping that after the race they will gallop towards me and ask me to be their jockey. It never happens, though. Because that horse will break its leg and move back towards the herd, back to habit, I am just a watcher with a top hat and a scorecard.

I get this impulse recently that it might benefit me to venture out into the world during early morning, those 4am and 5am streaks of light, and just find my feet in the tender ground of the woods, with only an mp3 player in hand - no notifications could even exist there. No people. Just me and the sound of my own hurried breath. Maybe I should do it, maybe it is a Wednesday thing.

But on this Tuesday, I woke up with the phlegm of desperation curdling in my throat and the feeling of a cold back where somebody else could be. I made breakfast and wanted to bring out an extra bowl, I put music on that I think I could perhaps enjoy with someone else. I want so desperately to just matter, to be considered. I can't believe I get so close to things and then tear them apart with my immature maw.