Bird As Fish

Oh sigh, it has been such a while.
While I have not forgotten you, dear blog, I have moved on, realizing that no matter how much I write, it will not be read.
At home, I have shelves and shelves of writing. I have many books on the subject, all carefully hand written. Imagine all the thousands and thousands of pages, that were never turned except by my own hand. Even here on the Internet, my dearest friends do not care to look at what I have written. Their polite interest in my writing is just that - soley polite, as if they don't want me to think that they don't care, but they really don't. Only my mother will listen to a poem or two and tell me "That's nice dear." I think it is just meant to be.
Except maybe when I am old and dead, they will say, "Oh look at all this stuff, maybe we had better look at it before we throw it away." Then whomever happens to be combing through this will look at it and then, only then will they read it and love it. I tell you, very frustrating indeed. That is the only way that I can express myself. It is the only way that I can say to anyone "Know me". But no one cares to know me.
Oh goodness, I am twenty and I am still on the no-one-loves-me kick. How ridiculous. I'm over it really, I am. I realize that people have their busy lives and don't mean to be so insensitive, but they just have other things that are better to do than listen or read or whathaveyou, something about someone else that does not mean anything to them. I know, I know. But for some reason, it still does hurt. It makes me want to stop writing.
I mean, really, what's the point in writing if no one is going to read it? Why invest myself on paper if the seed that I plant is just going to sit in the dust and sleep the afternoon away, if my writing is going to stay silent, dormant, unloved, and uncared for. Why take all that time, if...well, there just doesn't seem to be any point.
Do you understand?
Now, these days, I sit alone in my apartment.
There's the key word, alone.
I have bookshelves full of paper that gather dust.
I have free cable, and I watch endless episodes of CSI and City Confidential.
And then, every night, when I turn off my light, and pull the covers up around my body, I know that I am still there with no one, with nothing. I used to imagine that there was someone there with me, just in the back of my mind, you understand, someone to talk to, someone to sleep with. But I've grown up now. There is no one, just a heavy blanket, too many pillows, and a wispy, white canopy that always seems to be falling down. There are the sounds of the night, the sounds of my landlord walking around on the floor above, the sounds of the pizza delivery trucks driving maniacally fast down the road, the sounds of rain, and of my kitchen faucet dripping into the sink. These are all the sounds of no one, the sounds of the night that catches nothing but icy sleep. I cannot figure out if this is a good feeling or a bad one. I feel relieved somehow, but they tell me it is not good. They tell me I am shutting them out, but I yawn and do not see why I should not. I want to tell every one of them, I want to try to explain how I am just dying, but not one of them can see it. They say I have no reason to die, and what can I say to that. I can only shrug and walk off while they tell me that I am shutting them out. That is okay.