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2:34 p.m. - October 19, 2003
At least a cul-de-sac has a way out
You become attuned and forget what you see, enough so that at the end of the day you're left with only a vague dissatisfaction, a bothersome nothing as palpable as air: You feel it, you know it, but you don't know what it is. Or maybe it is that uncomfortable prescience in which form and purpose evidence a fundamental calculus excluding my direct input, a cabal of sprites mocking the absence of self-determination and efficacy.

Am I more the fool because I wanted to believe heís changing, or because I know he hasnít and wouldnít, and still yearned to be close to him? Moments like these in which clarity comes like a cast iron skillet are supposed to be turning points, history-altering epiphanies where Constitution-drafters say Aha! How about this? and the rest comes smoothly like water moving downhill, and all is well not in terms of the details but in the overall conclusion to the story. There are no malaguena minstrels in this story, no pumpkin or frog or wicked witch, no larger-than-life Matisse scenes; thereís just me and Spec and the wrongs escalate and still donít tip the balance and wake me up.

When he hits me there is both the physical manifestation and a powerful resiliency in which I feel loved by him. If he didnít love me so much, he wouldnít care so strongly and I know this doesnít make sense. Iíve tried for a long time now to understand it, and this is the best I can do. This makes me sad only when I think how pathetic I am to want love as much as I do and will take it via this polluted and thwarted manner.

These things I write in my other journal but this time I put them here. This is I. I feel unpalatable. Ashamed. Alone. Frustrated. Guilty. Alone some more.


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