sacred prayer

i read something someone wrote that said november was for the poet and the writer. i won't call myself either, but i can make feeble attempts. the cold seems never-ending. these days, i am almost always bundled up. i never find myself feeling warm.

goethe's young werther says "how clearly i have seen my condition, yet how childishly i have acted." i suppose i can admit that i now see my condition, and i take absolutely no steps to improve it. how childish! i guess i have been a good performer. i think i will forever reach for things i cannot have. maybe i just love to love. maybe this is my preferred form of masochism. i cannot fathom a love that does not swallow me whole and spit me back out again. and that is my condition. wish i didn't taste so sour.

i know i will outgrow this time in my life. i wish i would do it faster. this is a painful and slow treatment, but if i am ever to be cured of my affliction, i must endure. doesn't mean i won't cry and complain and lie. whoever said growth must be graceful? i believe i will always make a mess.

will this cycle ever end? makes you wonder if love and truth are real. makes you want to believe in something greater. winter is coming and i fear that the knife will be sharp. i think i will be maimed all the same.

the dark is a deeper blue these days. i have nothing else to say.