Pictures, Benjamin Francis Leftwich.

You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m sure of it. It’s also so inconsequential. I love you. More than you care to know. I’ve loved you more than you’ve ever cared to think about me. I still probably do, and I don’t know if I can stand that or not. I hate dreaming, because all I do is dream about you, and when I wake up I’m left with a longing for someone and I know that this longing will remain so for the rest of my life and I can’t live with that playing on my mind forever. What do I do? I’m out of breath, I’m out of strength. I’m losing ground. I’m losing touch with reality. I talk a lot to hide the fact that there isn’t much left of me, now that it belongs to you. If you quit on me, I vanish. I’ll disappear off the face of the earth. No, I’ll still be here, but I won’t be here. They say that you’re the physical manifestation of your thought. If that had a fragment of truth to it, I won’t exist if you leave. I go around, searching for a love I don’t want. A love that I can’t hope to ever say I deserve because it isn’t the love I need. It’s compromise, and the guilt of that kills me further. I’m trapped in this infinite loop of disgust and guilt, and perhaps you can fix all of that, but you won’t. I don’t blame you, and I never will. To me, nothing you ever do is wrong. I can live with this sadness. This emptiness, and I’d rather die before I say you’re flawed. Nothing I've ever seen is more perfect than you are. 

Don’t go? It’s only midnight.

Your Latest Trick, Dire Straits.

loving someone who doesn't love you back is injurious to health. 

Now that that's out of the way, I daydreamed for a lot of the day today. This one recurring theme is just you and me waltzing to the Dire Straits. It's 1986. We're in a small pub somewhere in London. You can smell the musk from the walls. People either passed out, or too tired to care. You and I just waltzing. There's a band playing live, and right now, they're the best music in the world. The music seeps into the air. Your perfume is intoxicating. I can smell the music in it. It's late. We're just moving. Up and down and left and right. It feels like a dream. Having someone to hold. Time slows down and everything stops. You notice. I stop feeling your breath on my neck. I can see your eyes now. We're face to face. I'm lost. Your eyes. Like a flash of colour in a black and white world. You notice. You smile. You give me a minute. You're talking. You're saying something. Your face is distracting. Your beauty isn't helpful. I try to pay attention to what you're saying. I'm not doing a good job. You start laughing. I can't help but smile.

You're sitting up, your back against a tree. My head in your lap. You're reading to me. Your words swirl and surround me. Music to my ears. You're telling me a story. I don't know what it's about, but I like where we are right now. We just are.

A long time ago, I locked myself away. Inside my mind. I began to create people, because I forgot who I was. Somewhere, somehow, you found the key. I finally began to understand who I am. I stopped creating people for the benefit of societal interaction. That was the biggest mistake I ever made. I'm certain now that nobody likes me for who I am. I'm certain that I'm going to hide behind me. Not me, me. 

No Money, Kings of Leon.

Every time I see you I think I make you hate me more. All I can do is ride this wave of self doubt and hatred. You're difficult. I want to talk to you about everything and more, but you look more like you want me to shut up.

"What's the most expensive thing you've ever come across?"

"Love."

"Care to explain? 

"It's an investment I can't afford to make"

"Oh."

You're taken, you're out of my league. You think I'm pathetic, you think I'm boring. 

I'm alone. That's my only problem. 

I don't understand my obsession with love. I think I've suffered rejection so many times I've began to crave something I don't have. It's like that word in that language about pain and sorrow for the loss of a relationship that never happened. 

Kill me already, I'm getting tired of this shit. I can't seem to get a goddamn thing right. All I can do is make mistakes. Go ahead and make one for me. 

God you're beautiful. 

Yes, I'm poor. Yes, I'm fucked up. Yes, I know you can't stand me. But I'm human. Or at least I think I am. 

What's the point of an existence where you have no control over yourself? Then again, who are you?

Yeah, I'm cocky. I'm painful. I'm ugly. I can deal with it. Maybe.

This need for familiarity. For contact. To have someone, regardless of who I am. 

Sleep used to be my best friend. It's my worst enemy today. Dreaming about someone is almost like allowing someone to control your life. I dream a lot. Every time I dream I feel this part of me missing, I'm waiting for the right person to show up. I'm afraid I'll be dead before that happens. 

All I need is a shoulder to cry on. I can feel the strain. The tension, I've had enough. I need someone to be there. I'm breaking and the only thing  holding me together is hope. And hope doesn't come easy these days. 

Have you ever wanted to kill yourself? 

Have you ever wanted to forget now warm the morning sun is? 

Have you ever wanted to forget how beautiful the evening breeze is? 

I want to. 

I have nobody to share it with. 

It feels like someone is choking me. 

"When was the last time you felt alive?"

"I don't remember."

"?"

"It's been a while."

How on earth do I get you to realise that everything you say about not liking me kills me inside. I think I talk compulsively because I need to hide what's going on inside. I want to let go already. I can't. 

I walked out of home last night. Spent hours on a bench on the road. It was pouring. I was freezing. I couldn't deal with what's going on inside me. 

Has someone ever saved your life? 

No?

That's funny. 

Why, you ask? 

You're keeping me alive.

God you're beautiful.