mouth

I wish I were intelligent, knowledgeable, and eloquent.  I wish it so much that I could cry sometimes.  This feeling can be spurred by reading the rich voxposts of dear friends, from listening to certain "singer/songwriters" (tonight I'm checking out Counting Crows, whom I've only really bumped into on the radio over the years -- also, I'm reading Adam Duritz's [singer/songwriter of Counting Crows] weblog).

Is it just egotistical to want to touch people, to affect them the way I'm affected, the way I ache from the hollow or from the overload, from the mortality or the desolation of my own vanishing smallness?

This is why I hardly ever listen to music anymore.  I can't stand it.  It's some kind of agoraphobia in the spaces of my own skull.

Everything's slipping away so fast, and I don't have any idea how not to be alone.  And I haven't even started drinking yet tonight.

There's nothing to me, nothing to notice or discuss; I don't know about anything, I don't have any hobbies, I don't do anything, and my focus just continues to fade, like declining years.  How can a person not even have any interests worth persuing?

So all of this, of course, propels itself down its own road.
And yet, the overwhelming richness of these feelings I avoid seems in itself significant, somehow, almost like substance.