Thursday, January 29
I’m trying not to think of what I’m doing. I’m trying to ‘just go’---though that sentiment is making me a bit resentful.
Now isn’t really the time to think in retrospect, I say in semi-retrospection. Now is the time to fuck up so that I can know where I stand.
Now is the time to figure it all out.
I’d like to define myself without your impositions, thanks. I’m trying to, that is.
And every time I think I’ve pinned her down, this Athia character metamorphoses into a cockroach or jiggly puff or some obscure whiskered sea critter that no one wants to hug.
And I’m searching for you, with a match box in hand. Light ‘em up, you say. I won’t find you here; not in that heart of mine, so full of spite.
Days are sort of drowning together, but that’s okay. I’m enjoying the company and the rain drops and the grass stains. And I’m going to try to enjoy myself--- in all my frailty.
There’s something strange about a broken boy. When you see him, you can’t help but to fall in love with his sadness, and I have---though my better judgment violently protests against such foolishness.
I swear to you, I’m trying not to like him, but it’s so hard. I can’t get over him while he still exists. I may just have to kill the unlucky sod.