Reading Writing Remembering

It all feels like such a joke, but I feel so happy when I finish writing a chapter. I'm consuming book after book like it was crack, and I can't turn my brain off for shit. I'm also constantly haunted by images of my past. It's coming at me in waves. I want to ask questions and find out answers about my life, but I can't. There isn't anyone to ask anymore.

I'm feeling like a pariah, a recluse. I want an apology, that I know will never come, and if it did... it's too late. It would be empty and worthless. It's so sad to see someone you love so much...and know they don't see themselves.

I'm purposely reading books written by women, and I"m finding that there is an underlying emotion behind a lot of broken characters. I find a lot of parallels.

He thinks he's a young bright thing, that someday someone will save him from his self-loathing. He thinks if he confesses his sins at the start, that if the woman knows what she's getting into, then that somehow proves how much she loves him. If she doesn't accept it then he's just nipping in the bud whatever real relationship that can develop on its own terms. What he doesn't understand is that all that invokes in a woman is either to love a broken one-legged dog or realize what a pathetic weakling he is. Either way it turns out, it's all true. He feeds off the love, sucks it dry, because he knows he can never be the man she's hopes he can be. It's silly, but women want to be the one that saves a broken man... but the only thing that can save a broken man is himself. No one can save him. EVER.

This is what I have relive every time I write.