In the evening

So there's the lightening bugs in the back yard and I'm watching them from my perch on the back porch and thinking, thinking, because it's a beautiful evening in a twilight in-between punctuated by dots of glowing green light and why wouldn't that make a person think?  Although sometimes I wish I didn't think because sometimes my brain is my worst enemy and I end up wondering if I am really the person I am or if I'm just pretending because sometimes I feel like a fraud, surrealistic and unnatural, a thin veneer of civility layered carefully upon a hopeless and insane core, a predatory disease waiting to surface and infect the people around me, and it compells me to want to hide myself from the world because that's how it should be if you're that horrible so that you don't rage out of control because no one needs to see that.

No one needs to see the messy feelings and the heartache and the pain and the suffering and the anger, not that anyone would care that much anyway, because people honestly will never care about you the way that you care about yourself, even if you say it, even if you demand it, but then if you demand it, it's not real and a mere chore for another person to perform, and then you're back to the quandary of being a horrible person again that no one should see when you're in that mood so bleak it threatens to break through whatever controls you've set up to maintain that layer of sanity.  And sometimes it hurts to be this way because you want to say everything but you can't not that anyone would truly listen, but still, sometimes you need to say it seriously and it just sits and festers and you feel like a fraud again, hiding behind the smile and pleasantries.

And that's why I think I write here.  To say the things I'd need to say, to a nonexistent audience.