I curl up to the heart molestation. I await to be the porch dog. I enjoy nightmares.

Between the age limits, they are maidens of a clever crush and seemingly a simple and consistent motive. But just as well, they are so infantile and act accordingly as such. I am justified as an appendage in healing. Some sort of a slight repair. A common fix until something better comes along to kidnap their refinement which, to my knowledge, I should be, in so many words, perhaps rewarded for, to say the very least. I mean, should I get not at least an “in return?” I don't know. Maybe, or quite simply, Okay, perhaps…no.

They are certainly bewitched travelers that have a Xavier type complex. A “white to red” endurance if you will. I mark my time as ‘special’ and I am now so protected and fortified that nothing, I mean nothing gets out. Nothing. And so nothing gets in. I predict certainty at a rate that is profound. Megalithic. Jarring. And to be polite about it is a unfertile practise that lately has proven to be exhausting. Tedious. To the point where I just am relieved to run away to set fire in the snow or partake in some simple act of solidarity that has absolutely no reference to any daily life monetarisms.

“We are whiplashed between an arrogant overestimation of ourselves and a servile underestimation of ourselves” Parker Palmer

I am truly confused about this quote. I don’t understand what I should get “in return” from such a poise statement. I mean, I understand the meaning or perhaps the simplistic meaning behind it but the more I try to analyze it, the more it sounds like fucking rhetorical nonsense. Excuse my fury painted sense of annoyance. I don’t know. Perhaps I have become one of those lone voyagers. Those lone nympholepts that have secretly gone insane. This theory wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

Lend me your reading ears for this one.

She writes. That’s right. She is a writer although she doesn’t consider herself as one. But she is. At one time, our exchange was like voltage. She would read my phrases of puke, and would respond with a sensible comment because perhaps she felt that my word-feces was, at the very least, edible to anyone who found it palatable. And it was good. But I think that she presently finds me wearing and has decided to “move on” as is the collar of most relative corresponded endeavours of such. My ultimate conclusion? She may be correct.

So what is one to do?

My berm remains impenetrable. My sensitivity? Zero. The study of the opposing gender? Limitless. Boundless. Tedious. In that order.