about the talking fish

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Writer. Wheelman. Occasional DIY mechanic. Walking collection of hang-ups. Hopeless romantic. Old-school. Analog soul in a digital world. I am all of these things and more.

Friday, July 20, 2007

Break out

I am finally free.

Free from the imprisonment of watching countless reruns of the what-could-have-beens of my life. Free from the compulsion to look at your face every now and then. Free from drowning in the quicksand pit of self-pity, regret and self-loathing I found myself in for months.

It was like waking up from a dream that had gone on for so long it began to turn sour on its own, as rancid as fermenting milk. I kept drinking gulp after gulp of the stuff without knowing any better, without realizing there was only so much I could take before I got so toxic.

The things I did to save me from torturing my own heart are regrettable, but perhaps I had to do them.

My eyes turn to the days ahead, no longer bloodshot with agony...at least until love fails me again. But that will perhaps be a long time coming.

I should get a haircut and a facial. I look like an inmate.

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