I often consider this my private little piece of the world, where I can rant and vent, about the things that irritate me. Or it can go in the other way, and be the place I go when I need to bare my soul. That is where I am right now. There's something inside me that I want to say. I don't know if I have the words for it, but I need to try.

I'm never going to get this, am I? The part that is supposed to be the easiest, will forever elude me.

I'm tired of trying.

I hate that I can pour my entire mental capacity, my enormous tolerance for pain, and an unbelievable amount of willpower into understanding this, and it won't yield to me.

This is my nemesis, the enemy I can not vanquish. It is the monster in my closet. I can run, I can hide, or stay and fight. It makes little difference. I am never going to win this battle.

I'm angry and I'm sad, all in the same moment. I despair and I scream my futility, but the situation remains the same.

I can't touch it.

For whatever reason, I simply can not make that critical connection that will let me grow. I remain stunted, somewhat less of a man, and a lot more of a child. While endearing and sweet, it is not the visage that will bring me to my goal.

I could live with this, if the pain would go away. If I didn't care, for a reason that remains beyond my ability to fathom. If that one, infuriating emotion would just cease its torment of me, I think I could relax.

I could be happy.

It seems my lot to be taunted by the monster. To have the venomous beast slither into my mind when I'm feeling contentment and pride at an accomplishment. There it comes, striking me like a vindictive lizard. And in my pride, and my arrogance, I let myself believe that the vastness of my potential, will now, finally, give me the answer I have for so long pursued.

There will be no answer for me.

How do you quit? The impulse will not just cease, because you ask it to. I've tried that and it is complete futility. In that last moment, where you stand over the beast, blood and gore dripping from yourself, and everything around you. Put your foot on the thing's neck, and exult at your victory. Only to have it snatched away, when once more, the thump of life beats under your shoe.

I hate this place.

I don't want to be here. I'm not used to failing. If I just try hard enough, I win. I am embued with so much that there is no challenge I can't best.

Except this one.

I'm weary. The fight continues, and it robs me of everything that the rest of life builds up within. I can win so many battles, and be crushed by a single failure.

Because I care.

The answer is that there is no answer. We all must try, and fail, then learn from our mistakes. And I do that and it still won't bring me salvation. I fail, and again, and again. Why can't my mind comprehend this, analyze it, and provide new direction? Why must I not progress?

In the end have I said anything? No, I don't think so. It is, and it will be, until the question disappears.

I remain . . .