March 16, 2004

6:00 AM Blog Entry

Alright, I've stayed up till daybreak once again for no apparent reason. I haven't been doing anything really important or mulling over a piece of my artwork or writing or anything. I've just been up, all night listening to the slow hum of the informercials blabbering in the other room. I haven't been having any awesome conversations with my friends overseas, or not overseas, or even with myself really. I've just been up. I don't know why I do this to myself, or even how sometimes. I could probably stay up the way I feel right now all the way until Wednesday or even Thursday if I supplemented my lack of common sense with caffeine or watching what passes for cartoons all the time. I just wish I were more productive with my time. I've got so much of it, all to myself in the house and nothing to bounce off of and run myself out when I get a little antsy at an odd hour.

Things were easier when I was younger, I'd just rush on over to someone's house that I'd know'd be up smoking the last bits of their bag and entertain them while they giggled away their high. Or I'd go out and go to a club and blow off the energy that way. I know that makes it seem like I get bouncy, but it's not really. I'm just very cerebral, I can't stop thinking and when I can't stop thinking my body won't let me sleep. I've talked to some people who seem to insist that I must be worrying about something, which is probably something of a transference. I don't worry about things really, when I'm actually up because I'm worrying I get things done and spend myself and fall asleep pretty good actually. No, I build houses in my head. Make art without touching any materials. I write novels and become paralyzed without a means to spew them out quickly enough to make sense of them. Even words are too slow and I can't even record it because I get too tongue-tied and frustrated that sometimes the concepts are there but while I thought there were words it was only that weird intra-brain body language that sometimes gets confused for real speech.

An awful lot of my life seems to be spent slowing myself down actually, not that you'd notice from seeing me sit my fat ass in a chair and stare off into space for so many hours I suppose. It's happening though, and it's like I'm dipping my hands into a stream and trying to scavenge nuggets as they go by and toss them into a pile behind me that I can only hope that my subconscious won't come up behind me and swipe away as I'm doing it. I admit, occasionally it's painful and frustrating enough that I cry. It's just as bad when I know I've got something but it's just an amorphous idea that I don't have the means to implement. I'm insanely jealous of people who've got more organized thoughts sometimes, or people who can keep journals during the fact instead of after the fact like this one.

It's raining outside right now pretty heavily, and it sounds beautiful. Really drenching and intense, the sort of rain that coats you immediately when you walk out into it and crisps your jeans later on in the day once they've dried. In another time I'd have liked to take someone else out into the rain and watch the blackness rise into dawn as we'd sit like idiots in the rain. We could taste the Gulf salt from the rain on each other's lips and laugh. Strangely I'm not sure if that ever happened. Intimacy memories are usually the most fleeting I think. Sometimes I can't tell the dream of the kiss apart from the kiss, or my yearnings for someone from what actually happened. It's like they're not real unless they're in front of me sometimes, by becoming intangible memory they make some sort of blurred translation into the possible from the precise. Honestly that scares me sometimes, but then they're so beautiful compared to the real things that happened. Maybe the dreams are better, even if they're only memories of dreams.

I wish you were here. Someone should be, someone not me. I think I'm too broken sometimes to really appreciate things without someone else to reflect on. Without a mirror I'm just a lamp without any walls maybe, I can't tell where I'm at or how I'm doing. I just do what I was designed to and grow hotter and more painful. Maybe I need someone to tell me if I'm beautiful, or if my light is growing harsh and too bright. Maybe I'd just burn anyone who was too close to me anymore though. I used to shade people with lies I can't really tolerate anymore. Instead of passion in a kiss, I'm afraid the taste would only be the blood of bruised lips and hunger.


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