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Wednesday, Feb. 16, 2005 / 7:09 p.m. ~Sunken Treasure~ What could I possibly put here right now? What could I possibly have to say? If I were to write the truth, it would be too much for anyone to bear. I could make something up, but what's the point of that? And what is the point of anything, really? Do you know the downward spiral? Do you know what it's like to think the worst, to always be wrong, and then to be appreciated? The rollercoaster ride is dizzying. I know I was appreciated today, I know I was respected, but when I look in the mirror I see someone old, ugly, worn, and I think about a future that has nothing anymore. Like everything I thought I had, like the cloud I floated on so recently evaporated, as clouds will do, and with that I fell to earth. But it wasn't a soft landing, I fell hard, and it hurt. I am so fragile. It's hard to believe, and I think most who think they know me would be shocked if they knew. I'm fresh out of analogies this time around, there is no adequate way to describe this. Just know that I took comfort in watching "Dumbo", eating steamed potstickers with the chopsticks one of you gave me, and remembering, always, how nice a gift they were, and drinking a glass of wine. To ease the old age dementia, so the studies show. The wine. If I pause, here, to look around this room, I'm suddenly calm, because it's all just as I've left it. Everything is where it should be, a thick layer of dust shrouding it all, so thick I could make dustmen from it, carrots for noses, charcoal for eyes. Have dustball fights with friends who exist only in cyberspace. I think I'm very low. I think I sank horribly, and I think I was a fool again, because I don't know how not to be, and I think I'm tired of people telling me what they think they know, when they don't really know at all. As much as I remain closed and tight, sealed up like a fireproof safe, I chide those who don't really know me, as if it's their fault for not trying hard enough, for not being safecrackers at large. I only know how to be alone, I can't possibly relate to anyone. I am not of this world, I am not supposed to be here, and in that knowledge is the most bizarre feeling accompanying, wholly indescribable. Acceptance, I suppose, and immense sadness, and the worst pain in suffering. It could be worse. I am a queen of drama, I am emotion incarnate, this is not real, and tomorrow, even later, give me an hour, will be totally different. Depending on the external stimuli, the senses being stimulated. It all could change with a word, or a phone call, or a letter, and then again, it was words set me here this time. Words did this. Not even spoken, but written for my eyes only. I can't tolerate any more attempts. Stick with what is here, now, what has been built, what exists erected, that is fine, and layers can be added there. I know who my friends are, and I think I can honestly say I have a tiny handful. Enough to fit in one of my tiny hands. This is good enough, and I know the rest. I am in control of my own destiny, and with that knowledge comes intense calm. I love this room. I can breathe here, and I am comfortable, suddenly. I look up at the framed photos of my mother and her family on the wall opposite, at times, and I curse her failure at the rhythm method. I do. Why, mom, why?, I ask. And, How could you leave me? And, Why did everyone have to die?, and, I don't know how to live, I don't know how to grow old, but this is natural, I think. Most people would look at the living parental version and inquire thusly, but for me, it's a photo on the wall. And a static vision, unresponsive at that. It's a mood, it's part of a cycle, and I was set here. Words did it. I didn't understand, and I was longing so hard, so much, so strongly, and I want too much, I know, and how unappealing is that? I suppose I felt I was in love, but it is unrequited. I honestly don't know too much now, and this is fine too. Cost of the War in Iraq
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