Tonight, for the first time, in perhaps my entire life, I found myself thinking ~I miss the old days. The days when energy bubbled from my veins in the most infectious way. The days when a night wouldn't pass without some drama-ladden story writing itself. The days when I didn't think twice about stirring it up. When my laugh always had a hint of mischeif and at least one set of eyes watched me thinking ~what will she do to next. When life felt like a play and I, the leading actress, pushed the line to see just how far I could go before life rubbed me raw.
Now, I'm so less apt to play a hand in this game. Maybe I threw in the cards a little too early.

If you understand this about me

It is one of the small pleasures of living in a developing part of the world that the foreigners one meets tend to live life in a vivid and eccentric sort of way, and when you listen to their tales of high adventure in the African jungle, you find that you are subsequently ruined from a conversational point of view, that you can no longer even pretend to be remotely interested in someone's trip to the mall, or their thoughts about the stock market, or their opinions about the relative merit of a basketball player, and soon you will be branded as aloof, simply because once, in a faraway land, you heard some good stories.

I don`t want to talk.

Stump me with a word.
Shatter my depth of understanding with what is obvious to you.
Cut into my ineptitude.
Scar my ego.

I walk sifting through a vat of listless minds.
I wake missing the disturbing manifestations of my subconscious.
I drift off listening to dead conversation.
I am conceited and my irritability grows with the limitations of here.
I stay home.
Dirty me not with your obvious bantering.
I am annoyed with your attempt.
You have nothing to offer me.

Brother, is this what I am to you.
Nothing am I if I am this.

I don`t want to talk.
I am not here, I never was.

I'm hoping to hold onto an emotion and/or train of thought long enough to complete a cohesive entry