Someday I want to write a song. I've never been able to write music except in my sleep. I can't do it when I'm awake, cause every lyric, every chord, every note triggers a bit of memory, and a song that already exists overcomes anything I can create. It's all part of my tricksome, unreliable memory.

I don't have much time. Not because time itself is going to run out on me, but because very, very soon now, I'm not going to be able to so calmy accept this anymore, and then things are going to get bad for everyone.

I cut my fingernails today. Maybe that doesn't seem like a big deal to you, but it's the first time I've ever cut my fingernails myself. They were long and unruly, so now they're short and rounded. And I don't understand. Why would anyone ever cut their fingernails? There's simply no advantage to it. Well, maybe if you play piano or guitar, but I type just as fast with long fingernails as I do without. No point. No point at all. Which, now that I think about it, makes an odd kind of sense, but is still all wrong.

It's all too bloody simple, is the problem. Too simple, and too much work for something that's so blessed easy. I understand, but I don't get it. Why am I the gifted one? And what would I do if I weren't? For just a day, just a little while, everything should change, but I don't know if I can, cause it's all too easy, and I don't know how to make it any harder.

See, it doesn't work.

Mmmm, nuts.

And she stands there so prettily, her head tilted in curiosity, ringlets of mocha chocolate brushing her face. Of course I'll be there, if you'll promise to wait for me. Just wait, and I will come.
So she stands there, brown eyes filled with waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

The worst thing, the absolute worst thing, is that I'm going to have to be sociable again. There will be people there, and I won't know any of them. All the games, and masques and dances and plays, and too many thoughts scrawled across their faces. I don't want to go. It's too much effort, and it's no help. No change. They're all exactly the same for all their differences, each and every one pressing in on me. And I don't want any of them, I have enough. They can all just go away.

And still there's hope. Too much of me to give in, and no strength to stop myself. So I'll look, and I'll hope, and nothing will ever come of it all. No matter what I do, they'll always be the same, and over and over again, more and more of them, and still I'll hope, cause I can't seem to give up.

Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll stop making sense long enough to get some rest.

When people were in serious trouble they went to a witch.*

*Sometimes, of course, to say, "please stop doing it."
--Terrry Pratchet

recent...
2001-06-02 - Too...much...thinking....
2001-06-02 - Think dead thoughts.
2001-06-01 - Details, details.
2001-05-29 - Another year older and deeper in debt.
2001-05-22 - TV watching.