Losing my way is my way. Where have I gone; when will I come back? I suppose I can never go back, I can only come.... here. My mind isn't here, it's there, always drawn there. I sit and breathe, I open my palms to the universal mudra to let all pass through - but I am dragged away, back there. I can't watch myself be there anymore; it has to be here or nowhere... the distance between here and there is nothing but pain.

There it is. I'm here, for a brief moment, and I realize it's no different. This uncomfortable blanket covers me wherever I am. All the work, all the struggle, the pain, the blood and tears, half my life spent slaving on my body's project and for.....? For the purpose I started, continued, for that purpose I achieved what so few have done. Am I someone to look up to because of that? What does it mean, any of it? A monk, a moral man, a good friend, who stubbornly and masochisticly cut away at himself in an effort to fit, in more ways than one. What is it? It's nothing. The reason I began, the reason I continued, was to be loved in a way so many others take for granted, even just for a moment. After all of this, even in the midst of loving myself I still stand alone, growing tired and sinking to my knees.

Nobody's going to pull you up. All that's left now is manhood, or sleep...