Is life (for you) So dull and meaningless.... Is it so necessary to escape, To drift from reality, To pull away From summer's soft and fragrant breeze, And mold into a being Which is not yourself But rather, Some distorted orb of existence... If you so desire To kill yourself, Draw your plans... Burn the grass... Blow your charred breath Into the baggy... And pop it. Be daring. Your loss of life Seems so indifferent. Why not go out with a roar, Like the coming of March, Instead of this infernal, Everlasting, Torture. The suspense is killing me, And I'm ready for a good show. I'll applaud... I'm a good and experienced audience. I'll be intent (as you) On your motive. Can't you get it over So I can go home, As usual, And take off my clothes And my make-up And roll my hair... So I can play Bozo Tomorrow Tomorrow In the great show Called Life That never ends Except for you, my friend. It was evident in my writing that I harbored discontent. Perhaps this was because I had recognized the elements and images of good relationships. In my written kaleidoscope, I contrasted generalizations with personal experiences; I was aware of what I wanted in a relationship of romantic nature and knew that my current relationship did not have the capacity to fulfill those characteristics. I had been trying to forcibly extract romantic inclinations from within myself and adhere them to primarily platonic feelings. I was not blind; in the brilliant sunlight, I had seen reality, but rather than facing the light or turning my back, I had simply chosen to wear sun-glasses to cut down the glare. For a time it had been the easiest solution; now, with a certain degree of fear, I knew I could no longer deflect the truth. For several months I continued to drift along, contemplating life's moments and my reactions to them. I had been letting life "happen" without becoming involved in the decisions that were at least partially mine; self-confidence had withered, robbing me of my voice and my ability to decide how my time would be spent. Toward the end of spring, my personal analysis bloomed; although the flowers, my conclusions, were not delicate things of beauty. I found I had transformed into someone who I disliked, feeding on a tremendous wall of resentment. Since I was not strong enough to simply discontinue the romance, I began to create areas of conflict, tempting him to argue or basting him with his faults. Knowing that he generally avoided disagreements at all costs, I tactfully asked questions for the purpose of testing his genuiness of character and individualism. I tried to induce friction to see when and if he would take a stand, yet he never would. I began to wonder if he possessed any opinions of his own.