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May. 6th, 2004
"pretty soon i will just disappear"
May. 6th, 2004 12:56 pmstrange days, good and bad. my fantastic moods are balanced out by a sort of stomach-clenching dread of the future. and i know that some of these reactions are reflex rather than rational, but that knowledge only helps so far and no further. there was potential of not seeing light this weekend, and apparently i'd used all of my bracing power to be cool with the idea of going to meet his family, i hadn't left any over for the idea of not seeing him. and i'm hoping someday i calm down a little bit about this, but part of me doesn't ever want to not be at least a little upset about his absence.
it's real, but it's not, and it's making me not be.
maybe when Wary has a few more boxes packed, or i see light put things into boxes, or help him with it, i'll be more solid, feel less like i'm growing less tangible, less me, by the second. i try and find something focus on, and there are bits, but most of them are kind of pointy, and i just want to finish the book i'm reading, and watch my crush on panache grow and drink enough gingerlemon tea at the haymarket to figure out if i like it or not, track down cherished, make history cook me dead animals outside, plan picnics with lyric, and go to mystic or stowe, figure out this instant affection for a man i still have no usename for, and on and on and on.
and i want to find my calm again, focus on getting to see another EFO show this weekend, and EastHeaven, and the practicalities of that, wait for light's present to come in the mail, and continue trying to save his birthday present for his birthday.
you know. stuff.
can you see the chronic anymore? (i make my depression sound like a drug, some weird new version of embalming fluid and flammables) i can. it's here in the way i can't sleep, or my hands and my voice move too fast, the way i can't convince myself to stop crying, and the way i sometimes forget not to apologize for every mood. it's in the way my mother's voice makes me nauseous, and the way i can't let go of anything. it's in the way that i blame myself for getting excited about something, when the something doesn't happen.
sometimes i think i just want to be seen, and people to tell me about the seeing. because i'm certainly not capable of looking in any mirrors, literal or metaphor.
it's real, but it's not, and it's making me not be.
maybe when Wary has a few more boxes packed, or i see light put things into boxes, or help him with it, i'll be more solid, feel less like i'm growing less tangible, less me, by the second. i try and find something focus on, and there are bits, but most of them are kind of pointy, and i just want to finish the book i'm reading, and watch my crush on panache grow and drink enough gingerlemon tea at the haymarket to figure out if i like it or not, track down cherished, make history cook me dead animals outside, plan picnics with lyric, and go to mystic or stowe, figure out this instant affection for a man i still have no usename for, and on and on and on.
and i want to find my calm again, focus on getting to see another EFO show this weekend, and EastHeaven, and the practicalities of that, wait for light's present to come in the mail, and continue trying to save his birthday present for his birthday.
you know. stuff.
can you see the chronic anymore? (i make my depression sound like a drug, some weird new version of embalming fluid and flammables) i can. it's here in the way i can't sleep, or my hands and my voice move too fast, the way i can't convince myself to stop crying, and the way i sometimes forget not to apologize for every mood. it's in the way my mother's voice makes me nauseous, and the way i can't let go of anything. it's in the way that i blame myself for getting excited about something, when the something doesn't happen.
sometimes i think i just want to be seen, and people to tell me about the seeing. because i'm certainly not capable of looking in any mirrors, literal or metaphor.
"pretty soon i will just disappear"
May. 6th, 2004 12:56 pmstrange days, good and bad. my fantastic moods are balanced out by a sort of stomach-clenching dread of the future. and i know that some of these reactions are reflex rather than rational, but that knowledge only helps so far and no further. there was potential of not seeing light this weekend, and apparently i'd used all of my bracing power to be cool with the idea of going to meet his family, i hadn't left any over for the idea of not seeing him. and i'm hoping someday i calm down a little bit about this, but part of me doesn't ever want to not be at least a little upset about his absence.
it's real, but it's not, and it's making me not be.
maybe when Wary has a few more boxes packed, or i see light put things into boxes, or help him with it, i'll be more solid, feel less like i'm growing less tangible, less me, by the second. i try and find something focus on, and there are bits, but most of them are kind of pointy, and i just want to finish the book i'm reading, and watch my crush on panache grow and drink enough gingerlemon tea at the haymarket to figure out if i like it or not, track down cherished, make history cook me dead animals outside, plan picnics with lyric, and go to mystic or stowe, figure out this instant affection for a man i still have no usename for, and on and on and on.
and i want to find my calm again, focus on getting to see another EFO show this weekend, and EastHeaven, and the practicalities of that, wait for light's present to come in the mail, and continue trying to save his birthday present for his birthday.
you know. stuff.
can you see the chronic anymore? (i make my depression sound like a drug, some weird new version of embalming fluid and flammables) i can. it's here in the way i can't sleep, or my hands and my voice move too fast, the way i can't convince myself to stop crying, and the way i sometimes forget not to apologize for every mood. it's in the way my mother's voice makes me nauseous, and the way i can't let go of anything. it's in the way that i blame myself for getting excited about something, when the something doesn't happen.
sometimes i think i just want to be seen, and people to tell me about the seeing. because i'm certainly not capable of looking in any mirrors, literal or metaphor.
it's real, but it's not, and it's making me not be.
maybe when Wary has a few more boxes packed, or i see light put things into boxes, or help him with it, i'll be more solid, feel less like i'm growing less tangible, less me, by the second. i try and find something focus on, and there are bits, but most of them are kind of pointy, and i just want to finish the book i'm reading, and watch my crush on panache grow and drink enough gingerlemon tea at the haymarket to figure out if i like it or not, track down cherished, make history cook me dead animals outside, plan picnics with lyric, and go to mystic or stowe, figure out this instant affection for a man i still have no usename for, and on and on and on.
and i want to find my calm again, focus on getting to see another EFO show this weekend, and EastHeaven, and the practicalities of that, wait for light's present to come in the mail, and continue trying to save his birthday present for his birthday.
you know. stuff.
can you see the chronic anymore? (i make my depression sound like a drug, some weird new version of embalming fluid and flammables) i can. it's here in the way i can't sleep, or my hands and my voice move too fast, the way i can't convince myself to stop crying, and the way i sometimes forget not to apologize for every mood. it's in the way my mother's voice makes me nauseous, and the way i can't let go of anything. it's in the way that i blame myself for getting excited about something, when the something doesn't happen.
sometimes i think i just want to be seen, and people to tell me about the seeing. because i'm certainly not capable of looking in any mirrors, literal or metaphor.