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Wednesday, August 29, 2007


With the exception of random tokens, each day I'm faced with evidence that I'm unlovable.

It's hard being unlovable because even the unlovable desire love.

Friday, August 24, 2007

The Anvil

I'm in such a weird place.

I started college after so many years of not being able to go. I'm excited! It's big! It's a huge thing! It's great. It's!!

Sometimes, I can't believe I'm there. Sometimes, I wonder if I can keep up. Sometimes, I wonder why I didn't fight harder to go sooner. It's still exciting!

But when I'm not at school… when I'm driving to or from there… when I'm trying to go to sleep… when I'm trying to get up… when I'm supposed to be focusing on a task…

my mind wanders…

There are painful things going on here. They're as heavy as the anvil Wile. E Coyote clutches to on his fall over the cliff before it flips upside-down to crash him deep into the desert ground. I try to hide this anvil in my soul, not for forever, just for a while, because I just can't look at it right now. See it or not, it's still heavy. And painful. And constant. Still, I carry it.

My intellect and my emotions are holding grudges against each other. They want to see eye-to-eye but don't know how to possibly do that this year so, they fill a chamber in my heart with thick tension and steely stares. Occasionally, they tussle for a bit before each going back to their respective corners with fortified tension and stares.

Have you ever been so sad you feel like throwing up? (No? Oh—uh, never mind.)

I often feel like throwing up. It never comes. It's hard to fit an anvil through my esophagus. For now, it just sits in my soul with dust lightly gathering in the "ACME" indentations on its sides.

I'll find a use for it yet.

Monday, August 20, 2007

I feel very lonely

I feel very lonely traveling on this road.
I don't know my destination; I don't recognize this abode.
And things just aren't going well, and by things, I mean me.
And home is not what it used to be, and it's not where it used to be.

I uncorked my thirsty heart in hopes of having it be filled.
Instead, the little bit it used to hold has thoughtlessly been spilled.
And my heart sits on the table, a specimen of disease.
And it feels like a million jigsaws where there used to be one piece.

Here it sits empty. Here it sits still.
Here it lays gasping, losing its will
To live, to love, to hope, to go on.

And the rest of the world goes on.