After the past few days I've realized something. I am simply not allowed to feel. According to my society, feelings for others are wrong and are always surrounded by hate, anger, and certain consequences. How nice it would be to sell my things, get up, and go. The gypsy life seems surreal but maybe we're actually getting at something. How much happiness fits in a cup? A quart, a gallon? We measure our happiness by the fragments of the perceptions of other people. I am not actually sure how to define how I feel. I'm not sorry, I'm not really sad. Maybe a little anger but not as much as you would expect. Friendship has been put into this very angular box and its hard to fill it corner to corner. Today I caught the eye of someone I do not know. We used to be lovers but we no longer know each other anymore. How ironic it is to force yourself to stay away from something you were once compassionate about. I used to enjoy the smell of your sheets and the pillow case wrapped about the pillow you lent me for the night. I made shapes out of the lights peering through the areas of the windows your blinds didn't cover wondering if this night could last for just a little longer. Something about 2 am brings together the lost lonely souls of this town and even though we will remain the same, one night can ease the indifference to our suffering. Everything that comprises how we see ourselves and the people around us is manifested into one giant shadow. Growing, moving, and making love to the lights against your walls. You can't get rid of shadows. I cannot accept any explanation you will give me as to why at 2 am you no longer think of me, why your cigarettes no longer taste like me, why my pillow's scent is just not the same as yours. I crave to be the smell on your pillow, the taste in your mouth, the skin under your fingernails. I pride myself on knowing that at one point in time, you couldn't have me and that pissed you off. The demons inside your head are now rising to the surface of your skin and you're so scared that all you can feel is anger. I will not allow you to share your demons with me. I have my own and we manage to get along fine. I remember the paths I used to take and how I would never take them now. Funny how we all evolve into such different people as we grow older but still remain the same. You make yourself feel better by vomiting up some sort of self righteous apology only to admit that you're not really sorry. You were never worth the effort. I want to feel the salt in the air and the wind in my fist until I cannot feel any more happy. I want to liquify happiness and sprinkle it on to the faces I meet in my travels. I want to feel the torment of the twisting knots inside my stomach bubbling into a pure smile that says "Its not okay sometimes, but sometimes it is." I want you to know what it feels like to be me. To make the decisions I make, to love the way I love. I no longer have anything to say about this matter. I want to feel. Whether or not I am allowed to, I want to. So I will. If that offends you, please. Go fuck yourself.