Perhaps A Bitter Prelude to a Tempest

Dear Reader,

I've done something amazing. The title actually fits the material. I won't actually talk about preludes or nocturnes for that matter, but it certainly marks the coming of a change. Or of a paradigm shift, one in my very core. Watch. Listen. Learn. This person that you read now, this person you know as "Daisuke", may change. Or perhaps not. That's for you to decide. So pay attention. Here comes the stream of consciousness, perhaps the closest diagnosis of my subconscious I or you may ever know.

I am tired. I tire of men. I tire of relationships, long, drawn out.  I tire of the unrequited, of the havoc it wreaks. I tire of the lightning rending the sky, the people cowering in their shells, ghosts in the machine. I tire of Meredith Gray. I tire of Grey's Anatomy. I tire of Henry. I tire of Ugly Betty. I am tired of waiting. They "love", or at least the emote as they are written. But I am tired of time, of the subtle under current it has become. It slides beneath my feet and whisks me away, rip-tide, before I am even aware. I feel the sands slipping between my fingers, but there is nothing I can do. I know my time runs short, but I am powerless to stop the unceasing tides of entropy. My mind descends into it's own depths,infinite and dark, frigid and consuming. I see my own subconscious, writhing in its own sundered sea. I have locked my heart away in a glass box filled with dust so that the sunlight catches each particle in its ray. That box is sealed beneath a field and that field is enclosed in an iron casket. What does this mean? It is certainly not an attempt to be poetic. It is a confession. I fear pain, I fear pain like they all fear pain, like you fear pain. And so I tire and despair. And so I wait and wait but I tire. I try, oh! How I try! But I cannot stop the flow of time. I walk down a five and a half minute hallway that extends into God, but it shrinks around me and the floor whisks me down at ninety miles an hour. Everything is speeding up and I know that. Everything is closing in and speeding up and it is only a matter of time till I hit my head on the ceiling. I am starting to panic. I tire of Meredith and Betty and men. I tire of waiting, I tire of being afraid to choose, to take a chance. I cannot change, not yet, perhaps not ever. I want to, oh! I want. And I want so bad, so hard, so heavy. I want on no uncertain terms. And I will want till the last grains slip through my fingers and I will tire till the current steals my corpse away. I am now, and for the first time, confronted by my own mortality. I see my impermanence and I despair. But I fight! I am fighting now! I can do nothing but fight, futile as it may be. And like I tire, I will fight till the day I leave. I cannot stop the hallway from speeding me down it's length, but I can start running. I can start moving at it's speed. I am trying and I am fighting. My legs move on their own and I can feel the wind in my hair. I hope. Yes, hope. I hope and hope and hope y ojala que my hope will come through. Esperar. Esperar. Esperar. And I will hope beyond my time. I will dream beyond my means, but I will achieve them! To me, they no longer exist as dreams, but as futures that I have yet to attain. They will happen. And I need no hope for that, just my armor of self-conviction. I still tire and I still despair and I still wait but I hope. And that word, "Esperar", it means both to wait and to hope. Is that a coincidence? I don't know. But I wait/hope, I hait and wope till my heart breaks free of it's self imposed imprisonment. T.S. Eliot's wasteland can fester as much as it wants. You shall not touch me. You shall not pass my soul!

Please, make of this what you will. I have hope now, hope for what I want in the limited window I have. This is therapy. This is a manifestation of my despair, an attempt to exorcise it from my body. Now comment. 

GO!