Collection

"I don't like myself, you know. I love myself, of course. I'm devoted to myself till my dying day. But I don't like myself."

'She was quiet, plastic...still-life drawn on the face of an apron.'

(Months ago, I wondered:)

'Why can't I find stability in a mise-en-scene created solely from feeling? It is wholly up to human nature and that part of a mortal being that woos the cognitive self into certain emotional states, I think. As such, the facet that dictates what is and isn't 'human nature' in this body has been permanently altered by situations largely uncontrolled by both rationale and common sense. I never was one for reason, I suppose; I never was completely convinced that the brain is the only organ that factors in on opinions, decisions, and ideas. Is it because I abhor a thing entitled 'common sense' that I search fruitlessly for fragile vindication? That I lack what little strength it takes to stop myself from spiraling into a place too bleak to mention is proof enough of the void left by self-efficacy. I can't bring about change as easily as it would seem...as easily as I would like.

I've been turning over and over in that bleak place for some time, to be honest. I've gone off what was prescribed to keep me whole, to be honest. I'm walking up and down this cavernous, self-constructed hallway in the dark; I'm too afraid to switch on the light, and I'm too afraid to open the door for you. You're a god, and I'm not...and I just thought that you should know. Chemical imbibitions, astounding intelligence, Brian-Eno-songs -- all of it meshes together into something that I could never know. Into something that discomposes me. Into someone that I love. You're a god, and I'm not. I just thought that you should know.'

(This time she thinks:)

"Never close your lips to those to whom you have opened your heart."

Sophocles' "Antigone" for World Civilization was a wonderful transition from summer to present-moment-maybe-hell. Silly little wonderful play. 'Fits. Like the tragedy I find myself wallowing in, like the tragedy we talk of when all else fails to convey any meaning, when it's a boring can't-find-a-momentum moment and I want to make you understand but can't, really.' Could I ever make you understand again? Growing is key, now...growing and learning and being absolutely and completely happy...because this one doesn't believe now that being happy is wrong, nor that depression is a life-sentence used to punish the weak. I am strong. I am capable. I am human and I make mistakes...some more grievous than others, but mistakes nonetheless. And it's okay. Unexcusable are the ways in which I make others hurt, but if I learn to forgive myself for such things, forgiveness from others will burn brighter, sweeter, and infinitely longer.

In those liberating experiences that have colored like sin-crayons these past few days, I've slept very little. Latticed throughout what little sleep did visit, dreams of creatures (mad scientists and muses) set me on edge. A treacherous dream curled my toes this morning, and touched me with a horrendous hurt I thought I'd suppressed. It was about a hair-pulling domino-fiend, and it stung the insides of my eyelids upon waking. I was going to call, and I was going to explain that I thought I'd gotten over it...that now I suppose I haven't, and that I won't. It's still a present-tense word, even after all the cold-eyes and indifferent-words. I know that it's real, that I knew what it meant a long time ago, and that I still need the love in the violence. Cautiously. I need it, I miss it, I'll never fade past-tense to zero.