Well everything I write is a question.

Well, I'm home. It seems I'm taking a vacation from this journey I've started without you. I'm searching for truth for you. I'm writing it down for you.
But everything I write is a question.

I may argue, I may speak unilaterally but the truth is that I forge convictions.
I may be close to realizing that I don't believe in answers.

I wish I could say that I've lived for you what I've kept you from, I wish I could deliver you answers, conclusions, certainty in these precious moments of your life -- but all I have are questions.
I've missed you.

But Julia helped me to realize something.
Every picture perfect thing she did, every scripted thing she said, it was a perfect portrayal of who she wanted to be. She played it perfectly. She knew she played it well. And she construed it as security. There was no discrepancy between her and her ideal self. She was content because she played her role in such away that achieved the perfect balance between art and accuracy. Julia was an artist and an engineer. Julia was a character.
We are all characters. Every person I've met that walks this planet is a mirror image of the lives they've lived, the people they've encountered. We do what we see. We are what we see.
People will try to convince you that there's more to them than their actions. But we run what we do by our egos -- and we do what we are.
But love, are we what we do?

Expose? People guard their identities and protect their secrets and build and build on these things until there are whole parts of them that are perceived by no one but themselves. Is this who we are? Is this fabricated set of ego foundations the revered and acclaimed self that we pride ourselves on possessing?
Do we possess this?
And for every bit of knowledge, is there someone, somewhere who doesn't want it to be percieved?
Whose duty is it to expose? And whose is it to advocate?

Every question is an opportunity. An opportunity to recognize, to plan, to implement, and to evaluate. To come closer to arriving at an answer, which I have come to find is often no more than a slightly more specific question.
Tell me, how close is close enough?
Is it close enough to have the question lying asleep cradled in your arms?

I am cradled. I have always been cradled, but I am only one.
My hand has always been held and my soil has always been rich. I have been nourished and manicured. And weaned into growth. I have been imprisoned, but before I could realize it, was set free.

I have been taught to lean, but not to fall. I have been taught to bargain, and to never sell myself short. I have been taught to ask, but not to answer.
In fact, there are either infinite things that I am or am not, or there is nothing that I am or am not.
I am all or nothing.

Oh love, are we all, or are we nothing?

Defeated

Good morning, beautiful, haven't a coffee. Have a headache. Have a workload. Haven't a shoulder to lean on. Haven't any money.

When you only ask to feel a little better than slighted.
When the food's bad, you're cold, and there's no heater.
When you're stressed.
When you've been used and what goes around isn't making its way back around.
When the light at the end of the tunnel is visible, but dim and dull.
When you're straight up in limbo.

You know it's a bad day.

Everything I have touched today has turned to shit.
Every pick-me-up has brought me back down.
It's not funny anymore, I usually laugh this shit off.
But today, it's not fucking funny.

I don't even know what else to say. I can usually find comfort in my own thoughts and ramblings because no one can tell me that they're untrue. But today comfort is nowhere.
I don't have time to hit reset, dad. I can't do that today. I have grades to make.

Let the patheticness of this post be indicative of mood.
Done.