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2001-07-15 / 11:18 p.m. ~Bodies at rest~
I don't know what's happened to me, to the parts of me that were good, that accomplished what needed to be accomplished. How is it that I am now this shell of who I used to be? I am a body at rest, I am inertia. I am that which cannot be accomplished, that which will wait, that which can be put off until a later date. I am nothing. A "working hermit" I was called not long ago, someone who goes to work every day, but the rest of the time prefers aloneness to being with people, prefers her own company to that of others, and why not? What do others have to offer me? But if in that alone time I might create, I might write, or paint, or photograph, or take care of what I have, organize at least, it could not be a wasted life, no, it would be for something. Instead I am incapable. There exists some barrier between me and productivity, and I can only remember what it felt like to be alive, to care, and to create. Why? If there were an answer at hand, something which would explain why this is my life now, I could accept that, I might try to understand, but there is nothing, only a sinking feeling, and a remembrance of what came before. Tomorrow it's back to the same old thing, same thing, different day, and it will all be planned out, all structured around a timeline, and I will appreciate that, know how to deal with that, but I will wonder why these two days, this time for me, was wasted, I will regret while trying not to, the projects left unstarted, the life I didn't live, the sadness of a wasted life. Mine is the waiting, for the good things that come to those of us who wait. Waiting, not doing, observing, not acting, not participating. For what? A body at rest, inertia personified. Cost of the War in Iraq
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