7:24 p.m. - April 15, 2005
I feel so immature. But who said emotions are ever mature?
So I reject forgiveness for myself and for others. I'm not the citadel I sometimes convince myself I am - what a nouvel revelation! (sarcasm, that) - but damn it, I'm tired of this swath I leave behind. I become afraid when I care for people as if it's some loathesome or undesirable impulse, find it difficult to move past that and feel comfortable. And conversely, I'm afraid when people care for me, worry I'll disappoint or be hurt, be unable to attract or maintain or keep interest, wonder when the facade will come down and I'll be trapped and can't escape. That's the illogical line of thinking that drives me nuts. There is no bogeyman hiding in my closet or camouflaged behind the smile of a friend, but I don't believe that one bit. I point to examples, reassure myself these lenses of mine are accurate: See the bogeyman, see Spec, see how well-plastered my walls are after each break-in. But I know logically these lenses are the ones suffocating me, curtailing my life in shrinking circles that one day will throw me off my safe perch. The past few down cycles have brought me closer and closer to eviction from this life and I resent that, as if my place here is undeserving. I say fuck that, too.
So call him up, say I over-reacted? Be apologetic, sweep things under the carpet? Life isn't like that; it isn't neatly fixed and smoothed over. It's harsh and unforgiving, hostile and hot, dangerous and selfish. I despise indecision, especially my own.
Choose. On the one hand, I was going to send him my book of poetry before going into the dark. On the other -. There is no other - that first is enough for me. Oh, life was so much simpler when I didn't have emotions.