"Immortality is in the written word" I wonder if that is the reason why I write. because although I claim no fear of death, for truely "the other side" is splendid. I think perhaps I still have some innnate fear that what I will leave behind is a smoking pile of rubish, that all that is will be for naught, and although philisophically that doesn't bother me I think perhaps that it actually bothers me. Somedays I ponder the meaning of life in a deep, meaningful and serious way, other days I realize that the meaning isn't important and I left all that seems deep float by liket he nonimportant clouds and I ponder the things that actually make up life, all the little "unimportant" things. the stuff that reality is made out of. the true "meaning of life" (I am certain, if you look) can be found within all the little things. it's the everyday details that make a story interesting and It's what makes it feel real. It gives the story a deepness that can not exsist in simply the deep philisophical ponders that seem at first glance to be the deep part of the story.
I hear it. I always hear it. Like the waves of the ocean and the current of my mind, it's continuous, unending, and undeniably there. Sometimes it blocks out the sounds of all others like a raft to protect me from the raging rapids of life's river. and sometimes it is the raging rapids in which I ride. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh never ceasing. if it ever stops I will be frieghted, I will think that I have come to an end, to the forever silence. forever my waves wash over me.
Is this my life? Is this what I am to be? all that work growing up, all the pain to grow into something unique and rare, and how do I spend it. . . sick. Only particially physically ill and a large part mentally. the pain creates scars and scars cover the beauty of that rare specimen. What was it about "rare specimen" that sounded attractive? what was it that makes people long to be that; alone, unique, mysterious (aka misunderstood). is it the beauty of art that can come from pain? is that what I asked for? if it is, have i found it? Is this where it leads. . . here? and if this is where it leads, is this all it becomes? Is this simplistic glimpse of my soul the only artistic beauty to come from it? Is it beautiful or it is just pain that others recongnize in themselves or project themselves upon?
The pain is back. It's in the abdomen. My pants feel too tight. My underwear feel to tight. Anything on my abdomen feels too heavy. Maybe it's nothing, just a small pocket of fluid that means nothing. or maybe it's something horrifically wrong that will make me suffer for a few horrible months before I die. (ok so that's not so likly but I am a little worrried that it hasn't gone away yet, and I'm a little concerened that it might mess up the whole perhaps having a baby thing. I'd like a baby (maybe)
ALL DAY
STARING AT THE CEILING MAKING
FRIENDS WITH SHADOWS ON MY WALL
ALL NIGHT
I'M HEARING VOICES TELLING ME
THAT I SHOULD GET SOME SLEEP
BECAUSE TOMORROW MIGHT BE GOOD
FOR SOMETHING
HOLD ON
I'M FEELING LIKE I'M HEADED FOR A
BREAKDOWN
I DON'T KNOW WHY
I'M NOT CRAZY I'M JUST A LITTLE UNWELL
I KNOW RIGHT NOW YOU CAN'T TELL
BUT STAY AWHILE AND MAYBE THEN YOU'LL SEE
A DIFFERENT SIDE OF ME
I'M NOT CRAZY I'M JUST A LITTLE IMPAIRED
I KNOW RIGHT NOW YOU DON'T CARE
BUT SOON ENOUGH YOU'RE GONNA THINK OF ME
AND HOW I USED TO BE
SEE ME
TALKING TO MYSELF IN PUBLIC
AND DODGING GLANCES ON THE TRAIN
I KNOW
I KNOW THEY'VE ALL BEEN TALKING 'BOUT ME
I CAN HEAR THEM WHISPER
AND IT MAKES ME THINK THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WRONG
WITH ME
OUT OF ALL THE HOURS THINKING
SOMEHOW
I'VE LOST MY MIND
I'M NOT CRAZY I'M JUST A LITTLE UNWELL
I KNOW RIGHT NOW YOU CAN'T TELL
BUT STAY AWHILE AND MAYBE THEN YOU'LL SEE
A DIFFERENT SIDE OF ME
I'M NOT CRAZY I'M JUST A LITTLE IMPAIRED
I KNOW RIGHT NOW YOU DON'T CARE
BUT SOON ENOUGH YOU'RE GONNA THINK OF ME
AND HOW I USED TO BE
TALKING IN MY SLEEP
PRETTY SOON THEY'LL COME TO GET ME
THEY'LL BE TAKING ME AWAY
I'm not sure what to be more mad at; the children's huge mess, the fact that the mom was down here with them and didn't pay any fucking attention, the Fact that the husband didn't bother to check if the child was ok before punishing him, or the fact that my body fucking gave out, paralizing me, when I was most needed. Maybe it is all in my fucking head and it gave out because I had enough stress and I couldn't handle an hour of watch the kids clean up some shit that they never should have been playing with in the first place. Stress deffinately seems to have an impact on it, and the rest of me. my abdomen hurts again.
No matter how I try to convince myself that it was nothing, the pain makes me remember. there we were having a jolly old time talking about our only sons and how we want another child someday without having the gap too large between them. we had made a conection and we were both happy. Suddenly I looked up and her eyes were moist, more wet and glimering in the dark examination room then they should have been. Maybe it was just a reflection that I hadn't seen before. Maybe the new silence meant nothing, maybe she just needed to concentrate. . .time passed. I wondered if it really was just a trick of the light, what happened to the bubbly conversation that had suddenly changed to an omonious silence? I had almost convinced myself it was all in my imagination when she began to speak (only to tell me the exam was done and I could get dressed) but it wasn't a happy bubbly voice it was one that was beyond a doubt chokeing on tears, a throat constricted and trying to strain a sadness out of it.
I can't stop reliving it, can't stop wondering, can't stop worrying. I've been more irritable, more stressed, more on edge all weekend. may all my fears be in vein, may tomorrow reveal unfounded fears. may my intuition be silenced for the night (at least on this matter) I can't take it telling me things I don't want to hear and so want to be wrong.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003