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11:52 p.m. - December 30, 2002
Dissatisfaction comes with the wind and sneaks through the gaps in the walls
There was a time when I'd write what I felt on nights like this and instead of inking the pen I stare at the monitor and will my fingers to move and not appear trite controlled shallow redundant but this is asking too much. Outside there are strong winds and the chimes hanging from the eaves near the third bedroom are tinny and I picture them blown horizontal but if that were so they wouldn't sound and I feel a draft float across the floor to my feet. I want answers and directives, Do this, Do that because I feel like my time is running out and I want to wring something that tastes like the thrill of living before it's too late. What an absurdist position and macabre thought but it's running through my head like a Tibetan prayerwheel singing dirges to the gods who don't listen because they don't have to. I want to be loved until I get it, until it sinks in and makes sense, overpowering and not romantic or potent but tangible and oozes out of my pores and I have to confess Yes, yes, I understand and then something will crack and a bit of me will appear and then more and more and then I'll be a whole new person and my problems issues worries failures fears will be as small as large they appear today, looming and overwhelming and combative. I am neither bright enough to see things as they are or dumb enough to be blissful and am mired in the penumbric where one day looks like yesterday and tomorrow is today and all I want is to stop treading water and get somewhere and have an answer to the question quo animo quo animo quo animo.


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