pleasant_fiction shulamith it is with black blood and a narrow eye that i write our untold story. lives that will never be. for, in hindsight, i could never belong to you, and you could never live up to my radically stringent standards. even if i had been brave and even if you had seen me... really seen me... our seams would have eventually split and we would have devoured each other like the ouroboros, doubling back to destroy itself. there are too many wrongs to make this right and i can't see a future to match this fabricated past. or perhaps this is what i'd like to believe. perhaps i'd rather spin this lie that confirms failure than face a truth laced with ineptitude and ignorance. it is, after all, my mind that spins this less than pleasant fiction. it is naught but the stuff of dreams and lies. but in those waking hours, on the precipice of waking, you are perfect. you see_me. and my frustrations fade into something beautiful and false. an ideal facade that cracks under the pressure of unwelcome reality. i'd rather keep these thoughts confined to dreaming, for my reality is one of alternate emotion and it is no place for spite. i live to sleep, to dream again. my waking_life is laced with lies to help me keep regret at bay. 081026 what's it to you? who go blather from