October 3rd, 2003
Living in black, white, and imbalanced chemicals
I didn’t go to work today. I was tired. Not the kind of tired like after running a race, or staying up a little too late, but the kind of tired that comes from living every moment awake and unconscious too intently. Maybe that’s why I have trouble getting rest, because even in my sleep I’m trying to take the weight of a world too beautiful and broken into my heart….the drama’s not soluble and it gets stuck someplace just past my aorta.
I spent today with the intent of resting, but feeling guilt from not doing something great. Something like carving another vision from a low-quality snapshot, or running past strings of trees and well manicured bushes to fall down in blissful pain on sunbleached asphalt. I’m not supposed to be using the computer, but I’m alone with my thoughts and they ache through my knotted muscles causing my stomach to turn.
Stories are made of words– bits and pieces of things we’ve experienced or imagine put together in a way that appeals to us, subliminally, like a film of ecstasy in an old glass of water. C11H15NO2. It’s made of passion, fear and belief in things that live just outside of what we’re supposed to accept every day for twenty-four hours. There’s something wound into my brain that makes me think every minute has to be like that, even the quiet, motionless ones. Those especially of all because in nothing can I assign the most meaning.
Living outside of one’s body is incredibly taxing on the flesh.
I recommend Memento.
You can just feel the details…the bits and pieces you never bothered to put into words. And you can feel these extreme moments, even if you don’t want to. You put these toegether and you get the feel of a person… and have to know how much you miss them.
