The result.

I'm not cold, angry and bitter. I'm not jaded yet.

It's funny to me that I know you're probably reading this, and I know you don't want me to think of you as all that bad of a guy - so you'll write me when I've gotten close to writing you off.

I'm bothered that I'm bothered about you. It makes me feel like I can't just have sex and forget about it, like normal people say they do but probably don't actually do.

I'm not hard-hearted yet. Is that the goal?

Is the goal confidence? Self-esteem? Forgiving yourself? Making yourself feel better?

Writing it down, is that it? Am I supposed to write something so worthwhile that even I will finally take a risk?

Am I supposed to be so hurt? Feel so hurt?

It travels in waves. I can look at the same thing from two different sides, two different moods, two different emotions.

Hope is gone. Isn't it? My time is passed, and I'm promise unfulfilled.

Or I'm impatient, and I just need to wait. And build. And not give up. No matter the thing that never seems to come, that thing that makes everything better and gives me something to focus on besides myself.

I'm supposed to withdraw, to feel free.

What is the goal? What is the end?

It's time to change. Again. It's time for ambition. Again. And confidence. Again. And maturity. Again. And a renewed sense-of-self. Again.

And nobody can fix you but yourself. And nobody can fix you but yourself.

You're sitting on a park bench in St. James's Park. Your leg hurts, and you can't move five steps. But you get yourself to the ice cream stand. You get yourself across the bridge. You get yourself to the next bench. Then the next. Then you get yourself up Waterloo. Then down the street a bit. Then past the visitor's center to a Pizza Hut. Then, outside of the Pizza Hut, you get yourself to a phone, and you try to call Miss Gibson. Then you get yourself to Piccadilly Circus. To the drugstore. You get yourself something for the pain in your leg. You go and you sit at the dentist's office.

You hide the fact that you're so hurt that you can barely move. It's a good pain then because of where and why you have it. You have it because you've been walking too much. You've been walking too much because you're in London. You're in London because you've always wanted to be there.

It's April in London. You aren't about to let the pain stand in the way of everything you want to do.

Here and now, you're letting the pain, the fear, the insecurity have you. It's eating you alive. You're worse than a loser. You're inconsequential and finding yourself uninteresting. You don't even know what you're escaping from anymore. Or what you're mad at.

You're all madness. Grim, unfocused, alienating madness.