Impatience.

There is never a definite beginning. I can find the lines where things end, but not exactly how things begin.
I hate some people for ever beginning anything, like that time back in 2004. Sometimes, I hate that some people do not define endings, like my parents back in 2006.
I have a funny way with people. It isn't endearing or entertaining by any means.
I find myself excited by others exponentially more often than they are excited by me. I put time in watching their eyes and listening to their supposed intentions. It is always in vain. People love themselves, are obsessed with their own being, and I get frustrated when I am quieted because they are not finished.
I am moody in my intensity. I have vices, my biggest including my inability to forget or forgive. I think I may subconsciously hurt people to see if I deserve to be forgiven in their eyes, or if they are just like me.
I have a general compassion for humanity, but on bright days like today, I have contempt for them, and perhaps I'm not so keen on myself these kinds of days.
There are so many things that I expect from people when I listen to them, and it is never said. I do not know precisely what I'm waiting for, but I suspect that they may expect it of me too.

I would give anything to climb my way to the West, to where I am supposed to be. But I'll find come November that my heart has traveled to the East, and trying to keep up with it will take all of my energy and willpower. There is so much left unsaid. How could we ever say it? When would we ever say it?

These things, they don't shock or pain me anymore. Rather, they leave a deep-seeded anger, one that churns my stomach and leaves my head aching. And all I hear is, "It's going to be okay." It is a blinded, lazy gesture of comfort. No one ever really knows what is going to be.

So, you don't have to say anything, not a word. I would rather listen about your recent flat tire or lousy paycheck. We will begin where things seemed to end.