it's a good thing this journal feature is here. it is so much easier for me to spill my guts to the (mostly) anonymous denizens of the intraweb than to actually talk to another human face to face. thank god for pixels...
why do i keep beating myself up? what sort of sick perversion makes me such a glutton for punishment? perhaps there are some holdover childhood issues about having a crippled dad. maybe it's residual guilt for fathering a child so early then leaving for four years of his life. whatever it is, it's slowly killing me.
the shutting of the door was a symbolic act. it represented the punishment and treatment i deserve. it was a metaphysical "fuck you" to every hope i might have had about the encounter. considering the whole exchange took less than ten minutes i think that door closing on me as i descended the stairs was pretty bold and direct. i heard the faint click of doorknob mechanics clicking and i knew that this was a pivotal moment. mr. nice guy might have had something to do with it. but it was just a bike and some prints. this was the bleak end.
i have spent the last ten hours curled on my couch with my head in a pillow. the rain outside has trickled the whole time, crying so i don't have to. i'm too tired to cry. i gave up today and i don't think anything will ever be the same.
the taste of a shoulder as a soft good night kiss is placed upon it. the smell of the sweat after a particularly energetic bout of love-making. the glimmer of the afternoon sun wrecking the view of the monitor so that i have to blot it out with a blanket over the door. no matter what page i read and re-read, the only thing in my head are these impressions.
i told a bunch of people at the time that i had found "the one". i received congratulatory claps on the back and knowing looks from everybody who said they knew it when they saw it. once i spit on a painting of mine and kicked it so that the glass in the frame shattered. i punched a thermostat which was never to be fixed and probably cost us some of the deposit.
where was i when i got the opportunity to visit my son for the first time in four years? who was the one i wrote to when i was breaking down in europe? who was the one who suffered shrill drunken screams that probably should have invited authorities? who was the patient model for some of my best work? who manually stirred the cheescake until arms ached?
my stomach is tied in a tight gordian knot that will not budge no matter what combination of hard liquor i pour on it.
my ears are ringing with the cold sound of a two hour drive in the pouring rain to come home and sit staring.
i don't know what's happened.
i feel like i'm dying.
i hope nothing else happens tomorrow. i might completely lose it.
why do i keep beating myself up? what sort of sick perversion makes me such a glutton for punishment? perhaps there are some holdover childhood issues about having a crippled dad. maybe it's residual guilt for fathering a child so early then leaving for four years of his life. whatever it is, it's slowly killing me.
the shutting of the door was a symbolic act. it represented the punishment and treatment i deserve. it was a metaphysical "fuck you" to every hope i might have had about the encounter. considering the whole exchange took less than ten minutes i think that door closing on me as i descended the stairs was pretty bold and direct. i heard the faint click of doorknob mechanics clicking and i knew that this was a pivotal moment. mr. nice guy might have had something to do with it. but it was just a bike and some prints. this was the bleak end.
i have spent the last ten hours curled on my couch with my head in a pillow. the rain outside has trickled the whole time, crying so i don't have to. i'm too tired to cry. i gave up today and i don't think anything will ever be the same.
the taste of a shoulder as a soft good night kiss is placed upon it. the smell of the sweat after a particularly energetic bout of love-making. the glimmer of the afternoon sun wrecking the view of the monitor so that i have to blot it out with a blanket over the door. no matter what page i read and re-read, the only thing in my head are these impressions.
i told a bunch of people at the time that i had found "the one". i received congratulatory claps on the back and knowing looks from everybody who said they knew it when they saw it. once i spit on a painting of mine and kicked it so that the glass in the frame shattered. i punched a thermostat which was never to be fixed and probably cost us some of the deposit.
where was i when i got the opportunity to visit my son for the first time in four years? who was the one i wrote to when i was breaking down in europe? who was the one who suffered shrill drunken screams that probably should have invited authorities? who was the patient model for some of my best work? who manually stirred the cheescake until arms ached?
my stomach is tied in a tight gordian knot that will not budge no matter what combination of hard liquor i pour on it.
my ears are ringing with the cold sound of a two hour drive in the pouring rain to come home and sit staring.
i don't know what's happened.
i feel like i'm dying.
i hope nothing else happens tomorrow. i might completely lose it.
At my worst, I remember a feeling of disbelief that I was still alive. I didn't much care why I was alive as much as I was distracted my the irony that after all the pain I felt, my heart hadn't stopped beating. That itself is amazing and some sort of miracle that can't be ignored.
You're not done yet.