Much better.

It's ok to blind yourself once in a while.  Just make sure you open your eyes before that empty perspective gains too much power.

I hate this fucking morning.

When the hell is it going to be my turn to take?  When will somebody decide to give?
I was finally ready to start but it turned out to be a trick.

I don't want to lose myself tonight but I will anyway.

I just want to stay in bed.

And my conscience is telling me to tell you not to worry, I will be better by this afternoon.  Because I will.  Fuck.

EDIT: It's my turn when I make it my turn.

Margaret sent 2/12/2008 12:21 AM:
someone else's need is always greater, more urgent than your own. How does it happen that your need is never more important to them? have a nice day sharla, the stranger/confidant with a lack of it

(I always keep the things that people say that turn me upside-down.  It's not part of the clutter; it's part of the space).

(I secretly make provisions for people to fail me.)

I don't know what to do with my hands!

Common sentiment, right?  We always need to be doing something, saying something.  Nothing makes us feel awkward, useless.  We fidget when we're unsure, uncomfortable.  What do I do with my hands?  What the hell do I do with my hands?!

Well.  In a thunderstorm, your hands do nothing.  They should do nothing.  First, they should turn off the lights, phone, and movie you were watching, then open the window.  Then nothing.

As you lay in bed, staring up at all the life in your room, don't TRY to think about nothing.  That is the same as not knowing what to do with your hands.  Just exist, and eventually everything falls into place.  Even if you're thinking.

Time to return.

Solitude is a wonderful thing.

---------------

Sometimes my stomach rumbles in response to the thunder.  It reminds me of how my dog used to howl at the trains and makes me grin.

I have my own thunder inside.

---------------

I managed to have a perfect day.

I have always felt a need for permanence.  I saved everything I ever created.  There are many moments during my day when I wish I had a video camera to record what's happening.  I write things so that they will exist forever.  I always hated sandcastles because they wouldn't stay. 
What I want is for everything I see and create and experience to last forever.  As a result, I have clutter.  In my rooms, in my closets, in my mind, in my heart.  I can't feel clean because everything is cluttered.

But yet, I fear impermanence.  Entropy.  The fact that everything I know and am will dissolve away into nothing.

It's not death I fear, not exactly.  I fear not my death, but the death of my ideas.

And so lately, I have been embracing this fear.  Some may call it facing a fear, but to me, fear is something natural.  You can never challenge fear and completely win.  I am not staring down fear.  I am embracing its existence (its permanence in my life?) and doing things in spite of it.  I accept my fear.  I know that it will always exist, so I am not allowing it to be secret anymore.  Recognizing, accepting, embracing fear.

I am embracing impermanence.

I am drawing and writing on tables that do not belong to me, putting a lot of work into something that I know will be gone by the time I get back.  I am writing anonymous notes, folding them up, writing READ ME on the outside (how very Wonderland of me!), and leaving them in public places (thanks, you-know-who-you-are, for the idea).  I am doing the things I need, and then giving them away.

I am a response to my world.  OF COURSE I am a response!  I will always be a response to my world.  The difference is that I am not whispering anymore.  I am interrupting my surroundings, and allowing them to interrupt me.

I was angry today.  Angrier than I have allowed myself to feel for a very long time.  I was full of fuck yous: fuck your impatience, fuck your interruption of my silence, fuck your inability to see past your own eyes.  No one was welcome here.  Everyone was getting a secret fuck you.

The result is I got a lot done.

I am still feeling a need for solitude and silence, but there are no fuck yous.  Or, at least, they've been diluted.
I am satisfied with my day, yet I feel no satisfaction.
This is good for me.  It keeps me working.  Toward ... impermanence.  Which I would achieve anyway, work or no.

Feel things when you feel them.  Just let yourself, don't fight it.
And let other people carry things.  Let them call you long distance and talk and let them drive down for the day for lunch and movies.  Let them love you and share things.  Spread it out.  Don't keep things in cages; they get angry that way.

I have just the right combination of friends.  Friends who will let you be as sad as you want for as long as you want, and friends who will only let you get away with so much before snapping you out of it with reality.  It's good.

(I'm glad that we will still be able to smile together.  It will also be good.)

sharla says:
 because we were great, we really were, and we both agreed
 and relationships like that, ones that have break-ups with cigarettes and random bursts of reading aloud from Franny and Zooey, they take you a while to forget

her eyes flickered,
flashed?
hesitated.
when I said your name.

Who are you?

It intruded on our evening,
slithering in through the cracks
that we tried our best to ignore,
adding weight to the air
drying out our mouths
so that our words crumbled into sand--
unsubstantial, dusty clumps
never getting any farther than the floor
where they fell with a gentle poof
and scattered.

And we got so thirsty for
the truth
for more than the truth
for something so true that it
couldn't possibly exist
(but which we wanted anyway),
that we drank each other up greedily
not ever mentioning that this wasn't a dream
that this was real and it cut
through our brains
and drained the blood
from our hearts.

We never brought it up--
you just don't bring these things up!
not when you're busy
building something else
out of sand
that refuses to stop
crumbling.

I wonder why it's been so strong the last few days.

I am so goddamn young.