Feeling very very withdrawn again. I likely need more sunshine and exercise. Honestly tired of writing. More specifically tired of writing knowing that absolutely nothing is changed by it, that none of this makes a difference that will be felt

a) in my life at a time when I need it; and
b) in other lives when they need it.

I write on and on about the same topics, the same issues. Nothing changes. I am not a better man, everyone around me doesn't magically become a better person. The woman I love still thinks I am the reincarnation of satan. I'm not allowed to be sad, lest by my sadness I ruin the moods of the people I come into contact with.

I have no right to be sad or angry because I don't live in Darfur, or Gaza or (to be local about it) in Payatas. But I am.

It'll be my month in a few days. My month. I need to get away, maybe go to Laguna (where the hot springs won't really cure me) or talk to some friends (who will tell me nothing new).

I miss Tina.

Her jokes, her glasses, her smell, her shampoo. All the hours of talk. But I know what she'll do if and when I try to reach out. Run like all of hell was after her. Mornings like this I wish I never met her.

The whole world knows I love her and it doesn't mean jack. That's the knowledge that takes the joy out of meals or drink or porn, other women, or any of Man's traditional sources of consolation.