tension headache

I weary of this disdain, this exhausting frustration. The specters of past failures drift as I drift, through tunnels and alleyways, empty hallways, this empty bed. I mourn these ghosts as half-heartedly as I cared for them while they lived. First, frustration sprung from this desperate impotence; next, a passionate anger, rage where there was once, even briefly, tenderness; finally, indifference, an unfortunate casting away of all vestiges of the potential for a life unlived. It is foolish to cling to hypotheticals, foolish to linger in the shadow of ambivalence. And yet... and yet... ?