To be half of one can only be a torment when the other half is gone.

I am basically an eternal existence
momentarily and perhaps needlessly
terrified by one half of itself..

I am not my own friend.
Time cuts me in two.

I cannot help vanishing and disappearing and dissolving. It is my foremost trait.

Don’t you see that I cannot be composed, I cannot reconcile myself, because there is no other reality but loneliness for me and before I am dragged back into isolation I will clasp and grasp and claw in fright even at you without consciousness — even I — and I am afraid that I cannot survive if I have to go on into myself.

I'm so burned out, the only person I can stand is myself.
I'm the only one I would put through this.
Wheels and wings,
The ride is everything.
I'm all I've got.
I'm all I can take.
Another day has destroyed a part of me.
So far so good.

Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make ONE respectable person!

Lately, I have been having nightmares, where I'm cut into so many pieces that there isn't enough of me to be put back together.

abruptly pulled over to the side of the road. And right there I had, for the first time in my life, a clear knowledge of a dualism in me. Two obviously separate parts were within my being. One was extremely old, at ease, indifferent. It was heavy, dark, and connected to everything else. It was the part of me that did not care, because it was equal to anything. It enjoyed things with no expectation. The other part was light, new, fluffy, agitated. It was nervous, fast. It cared about itself because it was insecure and did not enjoy anything, simply because it lacked the capacity to connect itself to anything. It was alone, on the surface, vulnerable. That was the part with which I looked at the world.

Half of life is fucking up, the other half is dealing with it.

There’s a loneliness that only exists in one’s mind. The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is blink.

I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating.

I don't know what's wrong with me. It's like all I can do is keep writing this gibberish to keep from breaking apart.

I didn't want to give you the one last part of myself that I couldn't take back. And then you were gone... And I realized it was already yours. It had been since the beginning. Except that I hadn't told you. It drove me mad, the thought that you would never know.