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This isnít how I wanted to start the month. Itís logical, though, that this past month has really put a beating on me and now itís caught up. Sickness or not, I relished the idea of shirking responsibility wholeheartedly. Unfettered abandon. I skipped out on them with good feelings because it was acceptable and because I still get paid for it. I only feel bad that this is my very first salary sort of job and within the first week of it Iím already taking advantage. To be fair, it seems within reason. Plus I just wanted it real badly.
The quicksand of memory and grief constrict vital organs fighting to supply the survivor with life. Sometimes it is too much; sometimes he has been gone far too long. The harder I fight it seems the deeper I burrow. The pain Iíve felt is enough to create caches of mournfulness. I shouldnít have to feel anymore. Let it become my unnoticed faÁade. The extra pounds tacked on from the growth of muscle. Unlike the one word over a hundred blatantly pointing to its own hindrance. Conditions of the blackest death shouldnít automatically call for lifelong bouts of crippling, agonizing anguish.
Today feels good. It feels right. Within my inner being I am well. Work was hard and I managed. I managed, in every meaning of the word. Now I am exhausted. Spent beyond available resources; in debt to my body. But I feel accomplished and complete. Persevering in times of difficulty is what I do, itís my thing. Outsides weather matched the chaos ensuing within my place of employment. I was face to face with a multitude of hurricane-esque bursts of fury and with hard work and determination I quelled the wind and rain of itís bitter desire to kill.
With a superman alarm clock that shoots a projection onto a wall or ceiling of the time along with the superman symbol, one can only wish to wake up repeatedly throughout the night just to see the coolness of it all. Factor in waking to the superman theme and one looks forward to getting up at seven past five every morning. The little things in life are what amuse me most. I derive joy from simple things like a laundry shoot. Itís a real good day to be me when I can say
I love my job,
and mean it.
Oh my God. A day off. An actual day off. Had it been
long? I fear itís true. So true, in fact, that I am even unable to remember my last
day off. Today was it. I have another one mid-November. I hardly knew what to do with myself. Naturally, I found my way, in the rain. Itís just not like me, the old me, to work as hard as I do. See, I wasnít lying to myself when Iíve said, for the past year and a half, that Iíll find a job and throw myself into it
I am too impressionable to be a philosopher. Maybe by time I eventually reach grad school I will be more grounded. As for now, everything affects and impacts myself and my beliefs. I doubt that I'm a true skeptic (pun intended). I think that instead of automatically doubting anything that is doubtable, I'll believe everything that is believable until it's proven doubtable. That was not the methodical plan. I wiped my foundation clean and I still allow error and misjudgments to infiltrate my senses. Descartes would be disappointed. It's like I'm making a mockery of everything this man stood for.
She is my appendix. Wanted, to be whole, but not needed. Known, but not felt until itís bursting with the poison she sets forth. Cut her out and itíll hurt momentarily, as the scar heals, and then nothing. I shall feel nothing. I feel nothing. The feeling of wholeness will find me again. The appendix will not grow back, but other organs shall, perchance, pick up the slack. In the meantime, I am home. At home and with peace: taken care of in every way I never realized I truly needed. Iíll never let a useless organ lead the way.
I see I see. Cracks appear when stress is applied. Glass creaks with added pressure before the initial snap. Splinters and shards break free. The world will soon collide if it hasnít already. Wreckage will tear us all apart like the splitting of the Earth. Where I end up will be told by following the trail of blood. If I have to get a grip I would only want to grab you. So your hand extends hanging limp on a hinge caused by the cracking of glass as you tried to approach, to save me from myself.
never love again
I deserve to be happy.
I deserve to be happy. That is what they say.
I think to myself. In this world, in my life, love cannot equal happiness. Iím not saying that it doesnít, Iím just saying that it canít. It is not in my best interest to ever rely on someone else, a lover, as a source of consistent well-being. That is not practical. Happiness is more logical than love. There will come a day when I have the two completely separated.
It will be a long time before I decide to make myself vulnerable again.
Found: Written before the death:
Everything is wrong. Depression has reached that plateau where it becomes acceptable, palatable, and expected. It wraps you like a blanket and you take it for what it's worth. You donít want to get up in the morning and that is okay. Dad is dying and the reality has hit the wall. I understand but only to an unexplainable extent. Weíve gone through everything. Scares and near deaths. What else is there? This is life and it will never change because shit will only get worse. In love with sadness. The blinding glimmer of hope.
I wonder if sheíll bother to read these words. I almost wish she wouldnít but half suspect that she will. There must be at least one ounce of caring left? Is she shunning me for her own sake? Does this make it easier for her? God. She probably could not care less. Iím here if she wanted me for anything at all and she clearly does not, at all. I need to give it up. Give what up? Something has got to give. Preoccupations need to start serving their purposes. I wish to forget, to return to being indifferent again.
You can shower me, flower me, paint me with posy. Run through fields of unknowing and uncaring; simply aware that the end remains in sight. Have your way with me. Allow my way with you. In six weeks you are gone. Iíll remain, intact. Perhaps another will come along. Suppose this is how I live out my life. Happy and content. Giving all of myself, yet giving nothing. It is my charm, missing for a while and now returned better than ever. I am invincible. I am everything anybody wants. Iíll mould to you simply to get what I want.
Tell me you love me. Remain with me. Linger in the backgrounds of society. Our secret can stay mum. Breathe into me as you did that one time. Memories donít always fade. Love shouldnít wait. As bipolar as the east and west, we can return again. My heart fluttered when you said what you said. Forgive me for believing you. Forgive me if Iím lying. Weíve always only wanted whatís best for others.
Another night alone. Awaken to find nobody, nothing but the time seeming to skip ahead as if to exaggerate how long itís been since, you have left.
Sad much? Yes.
Was it hopeless regardless? Yes.
Could it be easier this way? Perhaps.
The pathetic thing is that if she called right now, wanting to be with me again, I would drop anything and everything for her. It's a more pathetic version of Linda.
And she'll never come back. Right now I would suspect that she Hates me. But is it valid reasoning? Does what I did really affect her? Is it any worse than her sleeping with her ex? What we did to them was some justification of what they did to us.
Today, a gentle brush of cold air after a fevered hot flash and the grazing of hands brought together in the most vicarious of ways. Waves of intensity absorb into the background and a backlit face melts into a fuzzy representation of my desire. Queasy knees and a weak stomach give way to laughter attempting to cover nervousness. Charm is no longer a factor. Now the end nears; the finish line in sight. A burst of energy mixes with the beauty of our synergism working toward the common goal, the culmination point. The fruits of our labor. The ultimate outcome.
I think I said I wouldnít write about her anymore, and maybe someday soon I will keep to that thought. In the meantime, I miss the bloody hell out of her. The bloody fucking hell. She wonít communicate with me in any sort of fashion. She is done and I remember saying in the beginning that I would never let her walk away so easily. Iíd like to believe that I havenít made it easy. I am a great person, and Iím damn cute with tons of potential. Some girl will eventually be very lucky to end up with me.
I have nobody. I am alone. This comes crashing: My resources depleted. Iíve burned Every bridge ever crossed. I am the ultimate outcast; a shunned leper. There is not a soul who cares. Not a soul who knows. Neíer a soul to tell. Anxiety tours in pangs throughout my body. A chill dripping through my veins. My heart stays astir. I feel liable of falling apart. The seamstress is probably on vacation. Still undoubtedly a million mile phone call away. The phone made of molten lava. My voice coarse and tired.
Alone is what I wanted. Now I plead insanity.
Everything I write sounds the same. There is no escaping myself. I am everywhere I go, no matter how fast I run. Please, take my words. I want not. This is not me. Maybe it is you. I lay dying. How easily I let things beat me down. A bloody pulp. I hate pulp in my orange juice. I swear to God that somewhere in me is more meaningful things I meant to write about. Like existential breakdowns and or the ins and outs of Freudís theory of thanatos. Or why I donít believe in the psychoanalytical idea of eros.
Scandalous. Weíre breaking all the rules, we are. A secret in the loudest of fashions. Giving the neighbors something to talk about over breakfast. A gentle fling, toss of the hair. Forward glancing, backward walking. Wild stares. We break rules of all conventions. Whispered sentiments are unnecessary.
Yet, all the while there is one thing I wish to scream from the rooftops. If I yell loud enough maybe she would hear, maybe understand. Remember when we were too cute together? Remember how your intense love for me once made you want to throw up? How do you understand pure chaos?
There are so many things left unsaid. I fear you left me with the
and I ruined it. I fear I never had a chance to begin with. I wish we could be together. Iíll admit I must have been overbearingly cumbersome. I see it clearly now. But look at me now. I needed that push to see that I can do it alone. If we gave it another go donít you think itíd be different? Perhaps better? We were immersed in love during that first month. Canít we at least try? Tell me you miss me too. Please?
Today I must write one hundred words. Today unlike any other day shall mark the official new beginning of writing one hundred words
every single day.
I thought this month would be good. Instead, today, I am missing seven days. Seven hundred words. Seven times now I have had no words. And many times between that I had no significant words. The writing gets worse monthly. Maybe Iíll quit someday, maybe someday soon. But not this month or the next. Letís never overlook the fact that
I wrote a
I am technically an unpublished novelist. I used to write.
Time does ease pain. You wonít often catch me saying/believing that. But itís true, and time is constant therefore itís constantly true. Compared to two years ago I am remarkably better. Compared to one year ago I am remarkably better. I am near perfectly fine on most days. And on the days that Iím not fine, I am still functional. Perhaps stable. Two years and many holidays, Iím getting better as I go along. Though, it does still pain me. The lack of acknowledgement, the empty presence felt only by me and my brother. Please, notice that he is gone.
The shattered pieces of a smashed cell phone lay beside the remains of my once held together heart. If you hadnít let go it wouldnít have dropped. Remnants are never pieced together in the same fashion. Everything has been altered. And Iíll manage to gather enough scraps to begin again. But the sum doesnít equal the whole. And the reception fades in and out. I hear them and nothing is said. They find me and the machinery inside fails and chances are missed, calls are denied. The service provider has stopped providing all maintenance repairs. And my heart stops beating.
Why can't we talk anymore? You know I truly miss you. Why does that mean nothing? If all this is because of what me and s did then I don't know what to say because it was evident to me that I only did that because I was so genuinely hurt from having found out that you and M slept together. You couldn't see that though, despite having always seen right through me and into my deepest of feelings. Now I donít know what to believe, about anything. Were you ever true? Did you ever care? Who knows.
It would be wholly out of character if I were to let the best sex of my life waltz out of my world as easily as she so coldly is trying. The best sex coupled with her perfect personality and still she is the fool for letting me go and still I am the fool for not letting her go when she so clearly wants nothing to do with me. But this is who I am, this is what I do. In the beginning, I remember telling her that it would not be that easy to get rid of me.
Top of the line point and shoot. 18x optical zoom. SLR functions. 27mm-486mm equivalent. Dual image stabilization. ďIntelligent software algorithmsĒ to eliminate red-eye. Dual focus. 5.1 digital zoom. Macro focus range?
8 megapixels. LCD protected position. 5 year full warranty. Free yearly cleanings and maintenance check-ups. Free carrying case. Manual and auto settings, for everything. 58 MB internal memory. Advanced face detection. Ultra high sensitivity ISO 1600. Compact body; ergonomic grip. Wide angle lens. High speed shooting. Framing. Histograms!
Itís everything I could ever want. Best self-given Christmas gift ever. And, itíll be here in only Three-Five days!!
One full day off, the first in a while, and it feels like a whole vacation. There is something terribly wrong with this picture. Letís overlook the fact that I work 40+ hours a week without any sort of overtime compensation. For the first time in awhile I had to physically drag my lazy body out of bed. I do not want to go. I didnít want to get up. I donít want to go. The next fifteen weeks shall be torturous. And if in fifteen weeks I donít get a raise then I will surely make their lives miserable.
Going against everything I believe in, I keep meeting girls. They seem to crawl out of the woodwork. And I havenít enjoyed a single one of them. Not even the one who thinks Iím hott. My weakness didnít bring me down. Am I turning a-sexual again? Please donít let it be bisexuality. I have no interests in pursuing anything. Could it be the thought of starting over, of doing it all again. Giving it away just to get it back torn and bruised. The trouble of just getting it out there, of then being out there. That thought of forever.
The object of my desire has arrived and I canít bear to let it go. I put it down for a moment and I constantly glance back toward it. Will it disappear? Have I still not found the concept of object permanence? It is everything that I will ever need in a camera. Who knows where Iíll be in five years when the warranty runs out. Hopefully in a position to buy, perhaps, a top of the line SLR. For now I am beyond content. It fits my hand the way I imagine a soul mate would.
Iím over you.
Anticipation overwhelms. This I write a day ahead of time. But why when I still have to wait two days? I like to enjoy waking up on the first of every month knowing that I have another completed month of 100 words. Tainting that feeling is so easy, but I must refrain. I must, I must, simply to get the full dose of feeling what I feel every first of the month. Repetitive. I want to look. Shut your eyes. Shall I just cheat? No, itís not as if I have anything profound to read. Itís all mundane, Iím sure.
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