Battered book pages and a familiar harshness in my throat remind me of better times. As I always am and always have been, I am struck numb with the curse of indecisiveness. I wonder quite frequently of how many times I've tried to be a different person and yet have still remained the same; the most confusing part of it all is that this person, this 'same' that I speak of is still not entirely one person altogether, but rather  fragments of a human being with scattered but unyielding attachments to several people I once knew and loved.  I have relentless difficulty attempting to explain this to anyone I've known. In the hope of a similar string of attachments present in someone else's life, I come across some of the most stable and irrevocably stern mindsets I've ever known. I always wish to be so strong. I find this to be a weakness so great that it is unable to be overcome. This pain and love, almost awkward anxiety I seem to experience and base judgements off always seems to go astray. I wish I could believe it gets better or easier but if Bukowski has taught me anything, it is more than inescapable, a force with such strength that even detachment from everything only gives way to living a life unfulfilled and dying a lonely, cumbersome death.