Binding. bound. bondage. heh. bondage.
October 01, 2002 @ 10:27 a.m.
It's slow suicide, letting me sit here and just think. I keep re-reading all my material over PCOS, and it makes so much fucking sense. And I know I have to change my life because of this disease, and I already see so much in gray, because I know it will be fruitless. It already feels fruitless.
And I listen to The Calling, my favorite sob music from Fort Wayne, and I remember how hurt I was then and I crave it, I crave it. Because it reminds me of my lonely Saturday six hour shift at the health sciences library, where I played "Camino Palmero" over and over oh so quietly at the desk, endless repetition.
I love to live in the past but I'm choking back the excess of it now. Everything is returning from the past 19 years and becoming bitter on its path here. And I cannot possibly tell you again how much I would sacrifice or keep near to see some of the same old, same old without it having complications.
This is not home; it is most definitely something else. A temporary, I pray. God I hope it's temporary.
Black bile filth stench shit gray matter drooping falling driving backward back back back into retches and throes of botulism injected into the skin, bubonic plague blackening beating festering and then bursting green pus exploding from a single central nucleus
life.
My life, soundless images, JPEG's on an infected hard drive. You're forgetting that I remember every smell every tear every sunrise and disappointment, every cloud and every single tower that I claimed as MINE and now they're gone. Replaced with sluttybeautiful girls and the boys who stare and drool, every single solitary one just wanting a piece of flawless tight ass.
And I am supposed to do something with that, or not. Not forget, but certainly not dwell as I do. But you don't fucking understand, okay? it was mine.
or not mine.
Didn't really matter, there were so many intangibles. There are memories I've never shared with anyone, like how I snuck into Bonaventure after hours on a springtime Friday to email Matt, then waited 8 hours for him to appear as I sat wrapped up in a blanket on my little doorstep and he never came, although he promised. He was busy averting one friend's suicide as I died there waiting for him to show.
And I remember September 11th, a bit vague now, but there. Waking up to Weasel telling his listeners to turn on the television. Gaping in horror. Walking out, eyeing the sky fitfully, mailed a letter. Left early to turn in my work-study papers and listened to the radio with the ladies in the office. Walked to Doermer, watched the crowded-around TV as the South Tower fell. Trying to get through class, nobody could. My mother called around 11:30 to make sure I was alive. I watched Peter Jennings throughout. And then I watched America forget, over time. And commercialize the anniversary while here; seemed fitting.
Oh God I remember meeting Matt for the first time, on Sean's 29th birthday, November 30th, at a sparse Rosemary Gates concert. The night I started this diary. I was so shy, so concerned with what I should wear. And I saw him, and ran to the bathroom in fear, because he was gorgeous and I was suddenly not near good enough. I had to be dragged over to say hello and looking back I realize now we never belonged as friends or anything further but I would never take all of this back. Ever.
Not the hockey games not the concerts not the fresh air and most definitely never the tears. I recall all this emotion that I felt for so many and I would never take it back, it was my best creative time and best use of all my free time ever.
But, as everything, time breaks. And that is why I sit here and dwell on trifle little matters, wondering when this sleepiness will not be so binding.
<< | >>
- - March 22, 2010
always the same - July 01, 2008
b-a-n-a-n-a-s! - December 25, 2006
elementary again - October 29, 2006
I don't like you, but I love you - October 03, 2006