Something so intimate about the written word, about a closed, hidden book. Something so vulnerable...
I pass too quickly into passion, then out again. I have always thrown myself into raging waters, kicking and pumping with my arms, fiercely battling each wave that would crush me if I mattered. I suppose I need to gasp for breath only to plunge under again: sometimes of my own will, sometimes out of habit. What is life without the tossing and the turning? The stabbing pain beneath each rib, the fight to suck in cold, piercing breath? Perhaps it is merely a chance to soak up the bright light that eventually causes weak apathy. I could stay here forever, between wakened moments, the groggy sort of sleep that the sleeper holds on to, "Just one more dream, then I'll wake up." Sometimes I pray. To whom? Myself, surely. I offer up a plea, please let it rain, or not. Hearing the words are like reaffirming my self-worth in the mirror.
March 4, 2006: Saturday
If you can't trust yourself, who can you trust? I can still feel warmth spread through my hand and whiskey sting my nostrils. I could break them if I weren't so simple. The worst part is the longing, the wanting, yearning, passionate drawing. Towards What? Rest mind, Rest. We'll laugh about this someday, chuckling, trembling until I drop to my knees, sobbing. Why can't the world be as simple as I am? And why not just once? We've gotten to 3/4. We've pushed and ground as hard as we've dared without paining ourselves. Then, at least, it would be like all the rest: no mystery, no pangs from yearning stomach. Only sickness where hunger once lived. I guess I answered all the night time desperate prayers. But what the hell do I know to ask? And nothing is best for me. No one could quench the burning deep within myself. What if? I think that question is the worst. It spurns regret along with hope. And it is answered easily if we look in the right places. Please, no!! Just leave me, or ruin me.
March 5, 2006: Sunday
They are supposed to be weak, mindless meat. That's what I want. Weak, submissive, warm, mindless meat that I can plunge into without any antagonism. Oh, take me! Take me away from this world I know, full of pain and hurt and betrayal, full of hope. That is the worst part, and hope is killing me. Give me resignation, give me contentment. Give me anything but what I have... Hope, hope like a mystery that strings through life, catching on bushes. Hope, floating through the air, landing like a drug, an invisible pill: uphill. Take me, oh, take me away from this cold, unfeeling warmth. Embrace my flesh and my secrecy and my constancy. For at least in one thing I am constant. I AM CONSTANT. Who are you to make me reject and disregard the most secret place within myself? Why can't I make the patriarchal, blessed, cursed rules that dictate every life. That is the point. I don't want to. I want everyone free, living how they live.
"I will never be what I want, I will never have what I want. And I don't know how to stop wanting."
-someone once.
And I don't know if I should even try. And without pain, I have no passion. How wretched I am.
April 9, 2006: Sunday
A little less each time... What is it that draws rotting, meat flecked mouths toward my own. I once thought that they held me here, pulled me away. No, it is me. I drag myself, unwittingly, to the edge of a dark chasm and waffle in complexity on the edge. Should I jump, I should surely perish by gravity alone. If I stay, wolves nip at my heels. Death by many: fine. Death by one: anonymous, ungraspable, yet palpable in each hand. Constant, sure, steady, unreal. I have jumped. Certainly compare yourselves to more than a lost, simple child. You know. You know yourself.
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