| Today I became a tabula rasa. |
| |
| Lately I've been very optimistic about what the future holds. I'm ready to get out, but not without reason. Life is so much bigger than every problem and emotion I experience now.
Sometimes I'm very ambivalent about marriage. I go through periods where I feel that the fantasy is dead, that there isn't a life-changing romance in store for me. I have strewn about so many odds and ends, cracking seeds and shelling them on the street. I've got a trail behind me of shells, but nothing substantial left. I know what I don't want now, and I know that most marriages die. It's a gamble, and it's not easy. New realities in the new century colliding with everything I hope I'll someday find.
But I'll find it. There will be no yesterday or today or tomorrow, just forever. I will fall hopelessly in love, and it will be passionate and exciting and comfortable. I just can't wait.
I hope I remember that I deserve to be that happy. |
| |
| Cycling around.
What's in a name?
I'm forever doomed to repeat the same lines, the same scenes.
Same struggle, different day.
Living a reenactment. |
| |
| Hey, Becca, I miss you.
Danae. |
| |
| I feel as though I have found it.
It started after Oxford.
I came back from that experience with such shame,
such deep abandonment from the Danae I used to know.
Academia provided a rabbit hole while I heard the yells,
crashes.
Timid whimpers.
A land of milk and honey:
a verdant acre with a wooden house.
English countryside is so luminous and tender.
I hoped that I would find the strength I needed for the coming rat race,
but it appeared before me in that interrogating, self-righteous grin.
I felt home in no place at all.
Depersonalization Disorder.
Brought on by:
sleep deprivation,
caffeine,
nicotine,
sucralose,
marijuana,
alcohol,
but,
prior to all that,
simple, bitter disillusionment.
Unwanted by Kyle.
Uninterested in Clete.
Un...
...decided with Bennett?
What do I want? I reached my fork tonight;
god or no god?;
gravity or no gravity?;
recovery or no recovery?
I played all the songs I used to remember.
I'm not who I was;
I am the bruised, rotted core of that fleshy, promising fruit.
Too tired to fight my problems anymore, I looked inward with every device I had before me.
Searching,
gnawing,
digesting the delicate fruit,
I finally reached the inner worm.
Rock bottom.
It's time I went Home. |
| |
True
