I waited till the Internet stopped working to write this.

I took a month off. I needed a break. There was a birthday. There were shows. There was anything, any sort of excuse to not look at this. Anything to not think about my head being empty. Nothing felt right. No love. No interest. No desire. Just surface feelings, entertainment that barely scratched the skin. I threw it all at the wall, trying to get anything to stick, anything to make my heart beat faster, harder, more intense, more sincere, anything to make me feel. I wanted tears, pain, love, orgasm, hate, desire, lust or just some fucking interest in something. I wanted to not sleep at night. I wanted to toss and turn. I wanted to loose the desire for a partner, a warm body in bed next to me. I wanted a hand around my throat, I wanted to be shaken awake, I wanted to have my hair pulled, my direction changed, some sort of not very Devine intervention that made me take a left where I had been taking rights.

But that hasn't happened.

The parade has been beautiful. It has been nothing but party, one exciting day after the other. Did I say exciting? I meant empty. Faceless names. Nameless faces. Cold bodies. Warm bodies. Swallow. Sip. Chug. Snort. Smoke. Sneak in corners. Drag others along for the ride. Fake an orgasm. Forget a name. Develop a nervous reaction to any possible confrontation, or anytime someone remembers your name. Embellish. Divide. Conquer. Lie. Steal. Cheat. Be underhanded. Be divisive. Be manipulative. Forget. Don't care. Don't bother. Don't worry. Open the front door to let someone in while another is slipping out the back. Play wounded. Be hurt. Whatever. Make jokes. Be a joke. But make sure, no matter what, no matter anything else you might fucking do, don't feel. Don't let anyone in. Don't get hurt again. Hurt them. Fuck em, hurt them again. Then hurt them one more time. They didn't do anything, but they earned it. Go too far. Get bigger knives, twist them harder in backs. Because you are fine. No, I am fine.

I'm not the one taking a specific path to work to see a freeway overpass where I had the most passionate kiss of my life. I'm not the one repeating inside jokes to anyone within earshot just so they won't laugh and I can think "well, no one will laugh like you". I'm not the one finding excuses to take a shower because it is the only time I can feel free, comfortable, and close to happy. I'm not the one trying anything in their power to spin tales of fucking, drugs, drinks, women and cities not that far away to look interesting. I didn't mortgage my brain, my thoughts, or my passion. I didn't leave my heart on a beach, or was it that train, or was it that snowed in bus station in Denver that I have never recovered from.

I might be coming down. I might hate the holidays. I might miss everyone that has walked out of my life. But at least I'm writing, right?

If you could call this writing.