Ultimate unsent text

I could've, but didn't. I wouldn't, I couldn't, because it's not her. I want to tell her I miss her. I want to tell her I've made a terrible mistake. I want her back.

Late Sunday night

My head is brimming with thoughts, as it usually is at this time of night. Thoughts of what lies ahead for the week - dealing with the plumber, and perhaps a replacement boiler. Lots of driving practice to be done. Trying to negotiate a six month leave-of-absence with my boss, after he put two years' worth of work on my desk for this year. My eternal optimism that I might get up at 7am to go for a run before work. After five hours' sleep. It'll be the one escape from my head if I manage it.

yay

The traditional proverb states that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but I'm beginning to disagree. You can't miss what you never had, and likewise, you don't know what you have 'til it's gone.

I'm despondent of late. My siblings have been bothering me, an eejit of a taxi driver used his indicator to assume automatic right-of-way over me on the way home. I feel trapped by the scouts, but the sense of letting them down if I were to pull out would be too much.

My friends are happily coupled... do I resent them? Is that what this is? With their apartments and houses that they call their own. Their separate lives entwined around and within each other, supporting, nurturing, helping, loving.

Instead I surround myself with stuff. Items. Goods. Things. The things I said I could live without. CDs. DVDs. Alcohol. yay.

NYE

Running. Racing. Travel.

Creativity

If one sits down with the intention of being creative, rather than the urge to be, the innate desire, the creativity is forced and false, a form of artificial intelligence.

Some people

It's like some people haven't grasped the concept that the world doesn't revolve around them. They don't appreciate other people's efforts, their opinions, their thoughts, their needs. Self-gratification is their only aim - emotional and physical whores. Friends are harvested for their benefits, feeding the ego and the soul with empty substance.

Love

Such is love. We are but sailors on life's ocean, tossed like so many salads until we throw up over the side, or hit a big fuck-off iceberg. Or a lettuce.