I Don't Have Answers

There are so many things I don't understand. So many things I do not know. So many things I cannot do...and in trying, I can but fail.

The Angel is a person of words. She speaks, in earnest, and that is all she has. All I have.

Words won...what? What can words win when there is no faith in them, when they mean nothing, less than nothing, are tossed around like so much chaff to be swept away and forgotten?

Why should I bother speaking, when it has no meaning? I cannot fathom how the two things...words won...they're just meaningless words...how the two things are supposed to coexist. Ether they are, or they are not, real. I have no in between.

What more must I do, what more must I give or give over, before there is faith, trust? Does anyone believe in me? Have they ever? Or has it all been words, words, words, empty, useless, stupid, manipulative, worthless words?

I'm tired of words. I'm tired of wondering what things mean when they clearly don't mean what they're supposed to. I do not have a dictionary, a lexicon, that gives me insight into the warping and twisting that others so clearly comprehend. I speak several languages, but apparently not the right ones because I feel, more and more, that I am lost among strangers who have no care for my confusion, only for their own needs which I can clearly not meet because I do not understand them.

I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering where the barbs are hidden. I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering when the hard words will follow.

I would like to believe, again, in the one thing that gave me a sense of power, of strength, of ability, of pride...the one thing that I now find failing me completely.

I would like to be done with words, since they're so useless...but as useless as my words are, as useless as I am...they're all I have.

As I cannot be done with them, I suppose I will have to learn how to empty them of meaning, to speak or write empty things and keep myself to myself...excepting here and one other place...so not entirely silent or devoid of content, but only where I live and with people who are more real to me that you few who linger here in the shadows with me, as ephemeral as my own self is to you. You shadows will have the truth of me, then, and the people who should know, well...they won't see and won't miss what they clearly never had or wanted in the first place, if I am to believe their words more than they believe mine.

Do not ever tell me that my words have meaning to you. I cannot afford to believe, to hope, that there's truth somewhere in the lie, not again, not any more, not when I will be constantly waiting to hear that they're worthless, after all.