mainsqueeze's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- chrysalis What I feel is not what I feel is not what I feel is not what I feel. And I am comfortable with a loop of words that criss-crosses over itself and you can't tell where it starts and it never ends but everything has a beginning, right? Infinity is make-believe, right? I can't even make words happen, tonight. I will say this: I fucking hate poetry and I fucking hate poets and artists and people who can take something based solely on something subjective and culturally defined as negative or positive, not even really positive or negative (because there isn't any such thing as either of those) and make it tangible and heavy and thick and real. I hate it, fucking hate it, because it gives this place a sort of depth that is not always easy to deal with and it wakes me up and then I feel it sharp inside my chest, how much time I have wasted living in my own head. It gets tough to not give in. I read in a book, "I'm standing on a toothpick above an endless well and sometimes I want to just fall, to rest." Like digging holes in my skin with my short ragged nails just to see how deep I can go before I finally have to stop or like biting my bottom lip until it stops hurting and I can see a delicate line of blood sliding down the corner of my mouth and it is so red and it is so real, and I'm not really this pale, guys, see! I'm angry red on the inside! If you want the absolute truth, though, I'm terrified that one day, I will decide to just fucking leap off of my toothpick and if I ever land, what will I be like? What will I have done? Will I keep falling forever, cause that would be nice, I think, warm and black and empty and without any consciousness... 12:09 p.m. - 2002-01-02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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