I’m alone.

No amount of patience or poise or panic can alter that fact. I’m exhausted from the fight and I’ve begun to understand how life can simply grind a man down. I’m so utterly dissatisfied with the effort of those around me and often wish that I simply had ten more of myself.

I lead.

I suffer the lumps and swallow the insults. I’m the peacekeeper. I’m the guy who holds chaos at bay. I’m the god damn Rock of Gibraltar. I put that on myself, all of it. I do this because I can carry it. At least, that’s the mantra I chant to an audience of one.

My thoughts are a frenzy of ecstasy and agony, my heart a congealed mess of scar tissue and spit. I have precious little trust to give and what I can muster is routinely blotted by paranoia, insecurity and a fundamental failure of my brain to simply go silent.

No one is coming to save me — not a girl, not a dead loved one, not God. If I could only focus, if I possessed the power to halt the ticking of the clock — well, then I believe I could accomplish something worthy of ink.

The lonliness is destroying me and I can’t manufacture a problem with the mass to keep me distracted. This isn’t a test, it’s torture in slow-motion — like a glacier cleaving the Earth beneath it.

These words are useless.

Words seen by blind eyes and heard by deaf ears.

I can no longer discern between catharsis and confusion. It’s all a blur of color and lies, false promises and abuse.

Sleep, at least there’s sleep.