I am having the strangest waking-dreams. they hurt to be over, but live so frequently that I can barely contain them. my body is estatic with the thrum of the energy, and I'm filled with their loneliness. I think it may be pure ideas, but I can never be sure.
I was terribly angry with the teevee yesterday, miss oprah was perpetuating some awfulness in the interest of some book releases. I would like to keep my illusions about men unshattered until actually proven wrong. (it's not my fault that I've started ignoring the negative I see in people)
I want my hair to lay in dark waves around my face, to become more romantic. I imagined myself dead last night and decided I liked it. my fingers are feeling the ghosts of arthritis already, and I am terrified of my heredity. three nights before there was a recurrance of one my favorites (draped over a chair in a dimly lit room, I had let my hair down for seven seconds and someone had asked me why I don't drink. it seemed very nostalgic, and there was a yellow lace pattern on the linoleum floor. very brown, very brown, I stared at the dingy table and decided to be a smartass. "because that would mean I'd have to get drunk." and then I had left to properly fix myself in the hallway mirror.)
I thought about what would happen to me at school once I've decided to be tired of being abandoned. that hurt. then I thought about being brittly alone in the city and meeting up with someone and being called special and how it wilted me. and then I woke up alone and cried, but it wasn't glamorous like it was supposed to be.
I feel like a defective typewriter. nine antidepressants and none have worked -maybe it's not in my brain.
(commercial for rent, pregnancy test, violent video game, gum, tic tacs, fabric softener, rap music in a car ad, prepackaged mashed potatoes - I don't think I could've imagined the variety better. and it's INSIPID)
I should be enraged. I would like a hug. I am imagining things to be ashamed of, the most extreme of situations to think of what it would be like to be comforted after. to "punish" myself I just picture the realistic response.
guess what, I said, people won't look at me. and I go to class, and it's blatant how people don't like me. it's like disgusted sighs are my native language, but I don't want to speak them.
the frustration is manifesting itself as selfishness, and procrastion is building a fort on that.
all of the "feelings" are pushed under my ribcage and compacted, to come up as fragments. and I'm losing my memories and the ability to move my body and PLEASE DON'T TOUCH ME and MY SKIN IS TOO SENSITIVE. but then again, when has anybody ever wanted to, besides from obligation? I am not a pretty person.
-now I'm flittering my attention, like raindrops falling on the glass of a window. I always eat my candy methodically. there are all sorts of important things to be doing, there are all sorts of menial things to be doing. I am not doing anything. I fail (at everything, I s'pose)
and now, because I deem it important, I must discuss the overriding theme.
I am lonely, and I cannot (for the life and death of me) find a reprieve.
lately, I have been tracing letters all over my body in boredom and otherwise. I imagine it would be different if another person was doing the drawing. I imagine it can never happen.
lately, I have been trying to imagine what it would be like to be sung to. I think of myself older and singing to empty rooms and plants on the windowsill. I don't think that plants sing back for me to hear.
lately, I have been trying to get someone to call me on all this. recently, I've stopped picturing that happening.
I feel very riddled with sores and tumors (sickness) and etc. I could make this into a pure emo post, I maybe should.
all I'm thinking of now is how I was supposed to get some song lyrics and couldn't think of anything for hours.
I'm s'posed to love music, this hurts more than it should.
I want to be numbed from this. my lips are chapped out of my mind.
by now, I'm thinking, I've failed english and most likely halfway to failing precalc. fucking hooray.
(I'm counting my way into oblivion, I'd hope. or maybe I'm counting for the numbers. or maybe I'm counting for the words.)
depression leaves no sympathy.