suicide, blonde?

I am pathetic.
It's a fact,
(Or at the very least,
An assertion I can back up with personal examples
That would kill every personal essay in a 200 mile radius).
I'm cliché.

But I think I'm ok with that.
I come by it honestly;
And with any luck, eloquently.

Here's to hoping it doesn't get old.

So it begins.

Are you familiar with the compulsion
To just...
Go?

I feel like picking up a bike, driving,
Even rowing an inflatable kayak could do it,
As long as I have the handle bars, the gas pedal, the paddle.
As long as I'm creating the illusion of motion for myself.

Just going.

It's pathetic.

Not really anywhere, either, simply somewhere.
Somewhere I can have my thoughts,
Release my energy,
Focus.

And then come back to life,
As it is,
With all it's beautiful hues of grey and varieties of complications
That I have always loved, and now rob me of the simplicity that I have always loved
(But never actually had).

So I'm asking for life to
(temporarily)
Be put on old.

Not gonna happen:
It hasn't before
And it won't now.
It's simply a fictional fantasy.

But this, reality, is real,
And it holds all of the limits
That make life a little less romantic
And a lot more life-like.

That alone is romantic enough
For a hopeless romantic to admire.

And after all, pathetically hoping for something that you know won't happen
Is the definition of hopelessly romantic.