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9:02 a.m. - May 09, 2004
Singing minute songs to myself
It has been difficult to breathe lately and quick as a flash I'm in the pit looking up wondering how I ended up here. In a metaphor, I'm a flat tire on somebody else's car. I worry, I'm afraid, that I'm not going to make it, this time with a sacred confidence and assurance of level-headedness instead of emotional madhousecarousing. I know this will pass and I'll look back in shame and impatience, will lecture myself on silliness and talking-crazy and above all, demand suck it up-ness and pull on the I'm-on-top-of-it-all shirt before leaving in the morning. It's like I'm tired of arguing with myself, presenting a logical case, as if the jury's gone home and the light bulb shines on waiting for a finger on the switch. Neither fatalism or craziness, just the way it's supposed to be. I know, it's craziness.

I've gone a long time without giving in. I want to go swimming and hold my breath, feel the grit at the bottom with my toes, and propel myself up to breach the surface like a whale, to gulp down air that never seems fresher than at that moment.


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