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     diary at DiaryLand.com! contact me older entries newest entry A better use for here is no why

2002-12-30 - 11:29 p.m.

Because no one waits Because nothing ever moves really, Or changes. Because nothing is right Because everything is wrong Because of the sludgie muck that is posing as the contents of my mind. Because I wanted to touch something Real and personal. Because I wanted to find "my truth". Because I wanted you to do the same. Because nothing means much And everything means even less Because when I stop looking back I'll realize I'm falling down. ************************************* I hated that I used a quote as an entry, that�s quite the cop out. The thing is, I�m stuck between having nothing to say and everything to say. When I go to speak though, what do I really have to say? Or, moreover, what�s the point in saying anything at all? If I could just take my brain and rub it all over the page, I would. If I could only turn down the intensity of my emotions towards life. Am I in accordance with any natural law? I think not, and not so. �If I had to lose a mile, if I had to touch feeling.� I�m dieing up here, out here. Whatever here is and what it�s worth and that I pretty much don�t see at all anyway. And in between a frisky meal curdling up my damaged esophagus on the yarns of old hope, I�m nothing. Can I just throw myself into someone else�s light? Can�t I just hurtle myself into exploding or combining into you? I�m not embarrassed by how or what I feel, that others might see them. I just hate that I can�t purge them in all the ways they want to explode out of me. And it�s not explode as in anger, but just in the sense of the immediacy and intensity of the way they�re entangling in my head. *************************************** It's my usual mistakes: Makes unholy, death-love to your pillows. Leaves room smelling like wires and burnt sage. Falls typically apart in the doorway and remains silent. Holy or reverent. Don�t know. I was thinking about: suicide scars, dead beaches, purple mornings lighting on the cusp of my world, hanging in the window like some poison drapery. Getting saturated with emptiness until it�s all I can hold.

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