Consumed with guilt. Hate the uncertainty and, in a very vain kind of way, hate it when people are mad at me. I feel so disappointed in myself that I have given cause for someone to be angry at me.

A terrible, near certainty that I am far more fond of him than he of me. Isn't that always the way, though - always.

Late at night. Rushing of water from the shower, the babble of voices from the TV screen. Where do I stand in life, really, what is this other than some kind of hesitation before birth? Some kind of pause, inhalation of breath, before a final plunge?

I feel distinctly confused, perpetually trying to catch up, like a winded sprinter just behind another runner, pounding his feet on the asphalt, straining to reach a goal but missing, missing very nearly. I feel as if I am lacking something, an indefinable chunk that is still dormant within me, alive and pulsing in others.

I wander through a world of grey- flat, static, filled with stagnant water, with the specters of people rushing by with bowed heads and clasped hands.

How unbearable so many thoughts are to me.