Very tired...
like the world is spinning around me, like it can't possibly be real.
yet, here I am, lying in my childhood bed, uncomfortably, as always, and there is still this sense of comfort here, always. Particularly when I have the opportunity to spend an evening alone in my room. Particularly when I have a face glowing in the back of my mind, reminding me of what I'm going back to tomorrow.
I've been reading a lot, putting the pieces together of various people's lives online, realizing that sometimes there are things I shouldn't know, and that sometimes there are things that I should, and don't.
With some diaries, I can read them and know precisely what is being said, whether it is explicitly stated or not. With others, I am left wondering what could possibly be meant.
sometimes there's a bit of triumph when I think I've solved a mystery.
on livejournal I read comments people have written back and forth, seeing how they are when they have loosened their shoulders and backed away from the pen with which they normally fabricate their stories. I look for more clues inside people that I long to touch (although only with my brain).
Today was Linda's wedding. "And now I would like to introduce, for the first time as a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Zachary Smith."
It's not real to me.
My parents came home from Hawaii yesterday, bearing gifts and delicious chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.
That's not real to me either.
Today I met Elorza. I've been hearing, consoling, listening about him for years. An online obsession of Linda's, whom I, at one point, thought she was absolutely crazy to care so much about. But apparently not, because here he was today, at my table, smiling at small children running by.
Not real.
Maggie is depressed because she turned 30 today. Floyd seems to only be getting progressively worse with her own depression.
And I have no idea what it feels like to suffer a sadness that nobody can even begin to touch. No idea what it is like to have my body violated. No idea what it is like to feel as though I need to cause myself pain on the outside to kill the pain on the inside. No idea what it is like to be incapable of something as fundamental as making love to my spouse. No idea what it feels like to experience any kind of trauma, any kind of damaging pain....
So I sit and read, and ask questions in my head (and out loud when I am found out and begged) of all of these people that I so genuinely respect. I wonder. I imagine. I linger briefly on the words...
the words...
the words that are rarely allowed to even be spoken. I wish. I fight. And I try...
But I end up just here, me, here... me...
very tired
in my childhood bed
doing okay
and shocked at my own writing that...
I'm living for real
"You
took
with so much
gentleness
my dark
-Phyllis Webb
22:33 - Saturday, Oct. 18, 2003
Recent entries:
- - Monday, Dec. 31, 2007
The Moments to Live For - Saturday, Dec. 15, 2007
message of Christmas Peace - Friday, Dec. 07, 2007
just a bunch of breast tissue - Wednesday, Dec. 05, 2007
a poetry reading - Friday, Nov. 30, 2007
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