There become no strangers.

The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck noon,
He's here too soon,
Hickory, Dickory, Dock.
Why is it you still try to communicate? The outrage that I should speak still.
We ran up the clock until we could run no more: stoic in motion.
We faced the sky; we held such importance, and the next day we had found ourselves fluttering apart.

My heart has split.
It protracts to its origin, yet cannot locate its kin.

I have been spared the cataclysmic impact of infidelity - the acknowledged at least. But how familiar the concept feels.

The cremation of our bodies, our histories, has formed a suffocating black fog that enfolds me. I don't mind admitting that I am a prisoner. Are all love-letters destined to share this fate? Is there truth in only a moment, and no more? A linear dimension of love that can protrude no further than the final train journey from an era of your life that you take no great pride in dismissing at a later date - other than the immediate, other than the now? Yes, now it is so terribly the correct thing. How about next year? Will the fall of autumnal leaves, the scent of a peculiar rain, or the rising temperature of your skin not displace something forgotten; something hidden, something unbeknown? Will you then relent, regret, and be reminded?

Are there halves, wholes, or a multitude of varying divisions?
Have the times changed; is commitment the prehistoric brute that we can't quite piece together? It certainly resembles something we knew, but what of our lives? Perhaps our mortality is too present, and now incumbent, that this beast is a mere abstract piece. I find myself in a transitional era in that I grew surrounded as a child by devotion, but now find myself enveloped in seduction, manipulation, and apathy. Has the most ultimate pattern occurred; that we now seek all that we once sought to find, and failed in doing so? Or, was this the manner, the nature, the truth? Was this the path that would make the most sense of us both?
I have tentatively been well informed before, and fear the worst. Our paths shaped too irregular; the fit, no longer exists.

If a brogue can turn my head, I hope this is not absolute truth; just speculation. Yes, pensive, yes, difficult.

'What I find most consoling is to know that the boy sitting in the row near the doors has had a tiresome life and time of things, but despite this, and his atrocious good looks, he is still humble. Knowing his hands are soft, and courteous when caressing you mid-tight embrace. However, he remains safely by this exit. We both know he'll use it when we arrive at Paddington station and I'll never see him again'.

Unable.

"She will die". She must die. The endless phrasing drifted across my body like the hand of some careless phantom; an accidental skim of my body, with their ghastly cold, a monotone reality coloured in monochrome. The joy, the smiles, the laughter, the warmth, the arguments, the time, the friends, Christmas's, birthdays, crises, pets, and those I introduced to you, albeit indirectly. It all became so pale. Only I would remain. I stood within the shadow you cast over my life, and wept to myself.

I cried for the lack of trust, the lack of involvement, the lack of emotion, interaction, humour, the lack of humanity. I have mourned for your death, so many years ago, mother. The intensity of it all, and those I tried to reach for, would surely be too much. I thought back to their deaths, and I thought back to the death of my lover's family. How I lacked the reasoning and compassion I should have known, and shown, because I refused to feel.

I think to the summer, and look to the summer, but nobody is there. They have all become silhouettes, and just like you, I have no person to hold my hand, to hold and collect my tears. It didn't have to be this way, if only I had known what it meant to love someone romantically. And while you may have shown me love, this is one aspect of my life that remained sheltered. Clumsy hands on occasion would offer a rose, a kiss, a hug, and insight into what it would mean to be in possession of a person's love, but ultimately it would be me who would triumph. I would succeed in avoiding the betrayal you had suffered; the betrayal that was imprinted into my mind as a child. My suspicions of any person who looked at me the way they do in films; films about great love stories, 'The End' in calligraphic text. Was I doomed to this fate, or would one day someone find me; find me lost and unsure?

Chapter 2 was missing.

It happened again.

Both Norah Jones and Alicia Keys were absent this time. As was the horoscope.

The ridiculousness of it all - so many coincidences, or am I merely in greater tune? I say 'in greater tune' but perhaps I mean out of sync (as a direct result). I have persistently mused about polar extremes sometimes being a bounded entity; identical in nature, and behaviour.

An insatiable urge rushed through me this morning as I revised for my 'Personality & Individual Differences' course (the examination is this Friday at 9.30am - a time of day that sees me at less than my best in every possible conceptual combination).
Him. HIM. And also him. I did suspect, and my theories grew ever-more precise...
How could I have been so naive? The irreparable damage; grandiose schemes, and fantasies, now bleeding, dripping from tattered hopes. All into one. A liquidated substance at my feet, staring back at me. Not him.. Why him? And why does he insist on these calculated attacks on me: to penetrate those I have loved.
I use that word (both words in fact) with deliberate, and disgusted intent.

What collided in my consciousness this time? Jaffa cakes. Those delicious morsels that I showed great preference for as a child. So what does this mean?

Furthermore, what of this day and age? Are we too embittered? Too unforgiving? Too conscious..?

The consistent, and eternal imagery of him, and him. It is, perhaps, entirely sedated. The beautiful young son of a single-parent mother with impending talent to be realised, just beyond the horizon. Now comatosed, breathing gently with great courtesy of mechanical assistance. The assistance of the industrial past; strong, and withstanding. Painfully slow. Yes, so painful. Not to mention the revelation of untold infidelity - or potential moments. Moments that existed nevertheless, but were absent - unreported, just like my speech.

The people you love, the people you fuck; they each have a corresponding consequence to the next person you meet. The previous will decide whether one person is worthy, or not.

Whether one person is allowed to love you, or not.

It appears, with such dreaded clarity, that time moulds things anew, so much so that there is no return.
Time, you are the great destroyer. Distance, you are the great conclusion.

The Science Of Tears.

My indoctrination into the field of Psychology has been terribly prevalent in recent weeks. My analysis into human functioning has grown to new heights, with scientific rigour in its essence. Mostly everything I have ever feared happening to my cognitions. Oh, and I don't doubt that for former lovers this is their worst nightmare.

I was somewhat alarmed to recognise the fact I did not know why people cry. I mean, I know under which circumstances people are liable to. But what is its function? It is a universal behaviour, after all.

There are 3 primary forms of tear; 'basal tears' to maintain lubrication, 'reflex tears' for irritation such as from onions, and 'emotional tears'.
Interestingly, emotional tears contain a greater proportion of manganese, prolactin and adrenocorticotropic hormone, which is associated with hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis. This axis is highly implicated with mood, emotion, sexuality, and stress.

From a more evolutionary stance, it is suggested tears were for eliciting and acknowledging pain; with the hope of receiving altruistic aid.

The basic gist of the science of tears is that having cried, the body expels certain stress hormones, which elucidates the reason as to why people report feeling better after having a cry.

Many species share similar features of the axis, though human beings are supposedly the only ones to shed emotional tears. A response to external or internal factors which can include loss, or self-realisation. The introduction of greater levels of testosterone in boys during puberty is seemingly the reason why men cry less than women.

It is therefore possible that the suppression of tears can result in depression, or a lowering of mood.

Attractive for one night.

Twenty-one, twenty-two. My expiration is due.
To be utterly attractive for one night in a minute manner; to acknowledge my feelings, and exploit them for self-gratification.

The casual alcohol-fuelled ego and boy fucking of Thursday, Friday and Saturday are not satisfactory for this particular night. No. Instead, tonight requires passion - feeling. A one-dimensional construct between the cheap bed sheets of an unemployed university student in the country's gay capital. Self-affirmation in any context manageable, and quite often, unmanageable. Tonight requires my attractiveness for a singular night.

Intimidation, banter, tension. All of these are marred and swallowed whole.

Tonight, I will make you beautiful, and so too, I am devoured.

To woo, to enchant, to maintain, to respect.

Whose hand will pull you through the crowd?

Love is a weathered coin.
The comfort and security of your body; your receptiveness, your love.
The distrust and fear of your body; others' desires, your betrayal.
It is surely over-simplistic to say that a person who loves another person would never betray them. How do you recover? Left starving for the sense of connection - for you to mollify, instead of distress.

If I could introduce you to that year again, I would.
Introduce you to my life; drape you in the matters of me, and those around me. An expansion of my feelings - you would be. I question, how far you might have gone; would you have tore me apart? Reciprocated the way you were treated, to my increasingly brittle heart. Or have continued to complete me. 'It's just the nearness of you'; your scent, your touch, and I knew I had found what I had sought so terribly to locate within the insuperable vastness of this planet.

Although our conditions are ever-critical and metamorphosed, I would happily propose in the slightest regions of my mind. A dinner party and the age of 40; complete, sipping slowly from flutes of accomplishment, with the intermittent twinkle of the past, and future, combined. Ella Fitzgerland and Louis Armstrong describing only us, on a loop, the repetition we grew accustomed to. My belief is firm: the night would contain no end.

Sometimes it feels as though I am entirely lost.
My expectation persists; to see your hand, reach out for me from within the crowd of nobodies, and tell me that I am somebody, and smile.

Darcy, and the silver-lined cloud.

You see, I can cry on a whim, smile as I please. These emotions are extensions of me, not components. Tender touches, heartbroken pretence; I have mastered them all. I am, to most degrees, now human. Am I not? Are we not all fated to superficial understanding? Will you love the lie until you die? Whimpering and wrenching over the lost illusion. The masquerade of humanity and compassion. The art of loving. It takes great expertise, and I don't doubt its inheritability. I am the boy I have always been, older. Instead, my voice now flourishes, while my sense of hope and affection diminish; and not of waves of spite, but waves of failure, encroached with apathy. I'm in awe of words of sorrow; isolation, solitude, solace. They flow through me, soaking every thought and feeling. It is true that I can smile within this minute. And in the next, it is also true that the soothing sensation of those who empathise will hold me closely; kiss my forehead sweetly, and call me theirs.

Some surprises will never cease to surprise you; there are innumerable and unacknowledged aspects at work - you do not want to recognise them. Thus in effect, perpetual heartbreak is likely yours. Transformations may occur, but I know, that to me, you will be who I knew, not who you are. For that person modified the entire world in 1 day; never mind 6, with 1 to rest.
I will forever monitor contrasting 19 hours. When your face dropped, so too did my heart, and my understanding. I reverted.

The future was ours, and yet, I could see no farther than another 19 hours.
The process of planning, and now, so much more travelled down the road. Things are of clarity, and are yet perhaps still premature, or even impossible. Has the happened, happened too often already? How does one cope with such actions?

To fill a quota, to fill a weekend with work; over you? Over love? No. What was the thought process? - Absent.

Letters to no-one.

A quantity of 4 letters now reside between my Abnormal & Clinical Psychology folder and my printer. Each envelope holds a significant name on its front. It was time that all of the emotion inside was externalised. They exist, of course, and they may do so for a very long time to come. I have no intention of destroying these fragments of my insides. They exist, now contained in a body other than my own. The lows, the highs, and the lessons learned. I know they are there.
The named will never receive these letters, though a great proportion of me wish for their autonomy; to be caught in an updraft, and to grace the dining room table of each of them.

You see, I have discussed and thought at great length just recently; the position I stand in.
I stand neither in the realm of promiscuity, nor of abstinence and utter solitude. Intelligence, attractiveness, and wit, I stand in no extreme. The vast majority of us are not in the middle of this world. The average are the few here. We are those who stand thinking, and longing; longing to be loved but thinking all of the while. We are of course too preoccupied with thought to appreciate our surroundings; the love, the humour, and also the horror of either side. Neither pole satiates our desires. There are greater things than our gratification. We may shiver out of fear; we die, we may cry for the past; the deceased, and we may collect souvenirs. We are the reminiscent and the contemplative. The sacrifice of this is happiness, and the concept of the loss of this middle ground. Paranoia and jealousy override the beauty of our moment, and all is lost.

If only the lost could know; know all of the unknown that is known to the privileged current.

I examined 2 of the 4's previous correspondences.
I found two patterns, two collisions of the past and the future, both blissfully unconscious of the other. 'Romanticised encounters, the wrong time' and 'Physical confrontation never seems to end with any satisfaction?'.

We lose concentration.