Pointless

This is pointless. I drift from moment to moment, person to person, and ideal to ideal searching for peace, love, and understanding, but I find none of the three. As sure as the tides roll on the beaches of Void, I come to you as a monster: I'm ugly, melancholy, and sicker every day.

I have friends that write, and friends that speak. I love my letters, and I love my friends who know me through correspondence; you vastly outnumber the ones who actually speak with me. However, for reasons I don't understand, I yearn for good conversation and a friend who can actually look me in the eye and hear my voice. My pen flows in beautiful circles that link together to span the gap between bystander and madman. You can all read me, know me, and not flinch in this format; it's my best side.

When we talk, everything changes. The last time someone called me without implications in odd-shaped dice and a gaming table was over a month ago. I'm very alone and surely lonely. However, I don't blame you for not wanting to talk with me, or see my face. If I had a choice, I wouldn't contact me, either. I would hang Prester Bane out to dry, read as few badly orchestrated, pathetic poems as possible, and deal with me as indifferently as I possibly could without feeling insensitive. My phone is always on for friends, but it might as well be off with a voice mail message consisting of curse words and taking the Lord's name in vain. It's not like anyone hears the damn thing, anyway.

Don't worry, I won't do anything stupid, and this isn't a cry for help. I already know your reactions. This post is nothing I haven't said before, and nothing I won't reapeat again and again. This post is the situation as I see it; I'm left with no other choice of interpretations. This is ugly. This is boring. This is predictable. This is pathetic. This is pointless.