i live in this tangible thing

I have a bad habit of forgetting that someone will always, no matter their disposition or position in life, be a slave to the personality flaws dictated by their astrological sign.
For example:
A Gemini will always have an incredible talent for saying exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time.
A Libra will never understand that his indecisiveness and apathy makes you feel completely unwanted.
A Pisces will listen to your dilemma only long enough to assuage her own conscience before switching the topic back to her own narrative.
A Sagittarius will never make a single effort to reach out to you, despite your obvious attempts to gain access to his world. 

And a Scorpio will never be satisfied, never fit in, never be at peace, doomed to roam the earth in a senseless stupor, overwhelmed by the injustice of it all. She will never find rest in the hollow nights; instead she'll roll a joint or light a cigarette and stare at the darkness, wondering if it's always going to be like this and trying to make sense of something, anything. At times she will seriously consider killing herself because she knows herself too well to try to pretend that it could be anything different; other times she'll stare at the suitcase she keeps packed full of clothes in her closet at all times in case she decides to forget her life and buy a plane ticket to somewhere, anywhere and make it off what little cash she has. When she feels low she'll flood her mind with smoke until things start to make sense, until she can rise above it all and see the larger picture-- during those times she will play her old Nick Drake albums and lose herself in Things Behind The Sun, and eventually she will realize that experience is the only meaning in her life, that she must push all limits until she finds the one thing that makes her feel alive, and even then she knows that when she finds it it will not be permanent. It will be unsubstantial and fleeting and evanescent, it will come and it will go. She knows she has found it a thousand times and a thousand times again, it takes a different face every time and it only lasts a few seconds each time, but she knows she must cling to those few seconds or die. She cannot find any other meaning than those seconds that she searches for. She's found it in unbroken stares, in fantasies, in breathless moments, in stoned revelations, in inconsequential things. She will always search for more; she will always lament for the seconds she's found, she will always be ravenous for the seconds she is searching for, she will never be convinced that she will find another. 
She will never be apart of your world.
She will never rest.
She will never find a way to explain herself
and she will always be a desperate creature.


I'm addicted to breathing; I am myself in everything around me.