Before I left, I was pulled aside by, of all people, my mother.  She told me something that I shrugged off at the time, but have come to think of more and more in the past few months as I sit alone in my apartment, not eating, not bothering to shave, trying to capture some sort of Zen through a lack of self-respect - ie, losing myself.

I can't recall exactly what was said, but it was something along the lines of:

"I know what it is you are going through, and what you think you're doing.  But you're wrong.  I think you're making a big mistake.  You find people's flaws, and you can't forgive them.  No one's ever going to be good enough for you - there will always be something else to hate.  I felt the same when I was your age, and so did my brother.  You may think you're doing the right thing, but you're making a big mistake.  You'll just end up lonely and bitter because of it."

Now: I am not an unlovable person.  I have a lot of love to give.  Yet... yet?  Yet it seems that all this love is just some sugar-coating, since there's something about me that pushes everything I care about away.  Simple fear and flaws in those closest to me make me unable to communicate with those around me.  The general lack of empathy in creatures that I once felt closest to frightens me.  The misplaced empathy I see in those who I once held miles above me makes me feel lonely.

It's all about chickens and people sometimes.

Baby chickens.

There are times when it's just wrong to think about things.  I think I've made that mistake many, many times in the past.  But at least I am learning from this, in my own slow way.

[and one and one and one is yesterday]