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Thursday, Aug. 01, 2002 / 11:44 a.m. ~I�m Boring Myself~ Listening to Rolling Stones, �Steel Wheels�. Writing in my paper journal. Wondering why I�ve given up on my life, why and when I stopped trying. I can trace it back to individual events, compile them, deduce, calculate, figure, guess and come to conclusions. I can even see the one huge element, the one grand foible, grand folle, if you�ll accept it in French, and my question to myself is, �Why do I not initiate a change? What am I afraid of?� Exactly. I answer my own question. Change. Fear of it, and fear of the knowledge that nothing can change, it can only be different scenery, different faces, different days in different locales. But it would all be the same. Like traveling. It�s all so new to you, but to the people already there it�s just a life like yours. Same things, the basics, they�re born, they live, they die, just like you. Only the language is different, or the cars they drive, or the clothes they wear, but there�s no escaping being alive, not while you�re alive. Something sticks in my head here (in addition to Mick singing �Between a rock� and a hard place�) � Bobby Burgess� diary entry yesterday. He wrote of being bitten by a dog, being attacked, being mauled, his hand, his arm, and he felt elated at the pain, he was alive in that moment. I admire the way he reaches out for life, the way he grabs for experience, so lustily. He doesn�t stop to analyze, or feel horror at the horrific, he only feels sensation, and in that he is ALIVE. I�ve felt dead for years. How many? Two or three. Events must have precipitated the feeling. Surely. No doubt. They can be traced. There is a timeline. The constant has been this job, this soul-sucking job. And attempts made to leave have been so futile. The overwhelming feeling is there is nowhere else to go. I�m not qualified, they�re not qualified, I�m not what they want and they are not what I want. I�m boring myself with this. Cost of the War in Iraq
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