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Sunday, Mar. 20, 2005 / 11:43 p.m. ~No, No, It's Fine, Really~ I took pictures of myself, and with one of my cats, I posted them in my online journal, I read about sex, and looked at artistic photos of nudes, I exchanged message board comments with people online, I pretended I was socializing, I watched television, I ate, I wrote about it online, I watched more television, I wrote more, I uploaded photographs online, I resized photos and made them into icons, I wrote more, I watched more television, I cleaned after my cats, I fed them, I sat and wondered why I felt I didn't want to do anything I had to do, then I said inside myself 'It's Sunday, the day of rest, I am resting'. I feel as if I never had a cold, and I wonder what it was, was it a flu, was it an allergy, and then I cough a dry hacking cough and wonder if I'm still sick, and then I feel sick and shaky and weak, so I drink water, and then I wonder if I got enough sleep, and I remember sleeping on the sofa, and then I remember waking to see "Alfie", weeks ago, and what happened on that day, and my heart races and skips its beat and I'm sad, more like some uncontrollable thing washes over me, and I'm remembering, everything, and that was today wasn't it, and that other day, after "Alfie", I felt so horrible that day, I remember that too, it was a Sunday. A year ago today I took pictures of myself with the other cat, and I don't look too different really. And I did the same, I wrote online. And I write as if I'm telling it all to someone, and I wonder who reads it, and most days I never know, and most days that's good, and then someone says, 'I read it, and here is what I think', and we talk about it, but we're not really talking about it at all, and there is this propensity to sink just a bit here, and I have no idea why except this is it, it's Sunday night, it's over now, my real life is ending now, and I go back to to the grind, the slave to the machine, the working for the man, the forty hours of my week every week and wondering where I'll be in five weeks. Five weeks. I told my cousin I'd take off work, whatever work I'll be doing, when she comes to visit, for a layover of sorts. Fine, I'll take time off, sure, not a problem, and I worry now, about that too, as if there is not enough to worry about, and today, this day of rest, was free from worry. It was about flirtation and sex and entertainment and writing, and photography and narcissism, and thinking of nothing but doing nothing and relishing the doing of the nothing. Tomorrow it's all right back where it was, right where I left it. The same place, the same people, but with angst and worry and sadness and depression and change, change, change, change. And there will be stormy weather, because lately a trip to work is accompanied by rain and a raincoat and an umbrella, and it storms outside to echo the storm inside. I want it to be over. I want it all to be over and my new life to begin. What what? It's all going to be alright, what's this emo crap, eh? Open a window on the screen and out pours all the goop best left inside? No, no, no, it's all fine, just feeling a little odd this evening, that's all. I made a bit of an effort today, I'm a bit shocked at what I did, I'll be okay, I want something rather badly, it's sad, that's all. My neck hurts, I'm afraid I'm not all better from my cold. Or flu. Or allergy. Spring is here, so happy Vernal Equinox, to me and all. It's okay, it is. Cost of the War in Iraq
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