Wednesday, September 22
In class today, Dr. H talked about a Deconstructionist who says that there is no truth in writing---that one can never trust the author of a text because the moment of writing begins the moment of censorship. I repeat: there is no truth in writing.
(What happened to the mimetic power? )
Then again, it's rather contradictory of me to suspect ALL narratology while still being steadfast in investing in a lifetime of literature.
I'm sorry you hurt. I'm sorry your life didn't turn out the way you wanted it to. I'm sorry that I can't reach you. I'm sorry that I can't fix things for you. I'm sorry you don't realize that everything I do is for you.
Tuesday, September 14
I can't sleep. I'm so tired right now, but I can't sleep.
So I think of you instead. It isn't healthy. God, it is so unhealthy.
I get to you sometimes, don't I? I get under your skin and in your head and I make you dizzy with my craziness. I tumble you around with my words. You're usually so calm, so collected. Indifference, you claim. But then you have those outbursts of emotions that confuse the hell out of me. We share secrets in quiet corridors. I whisper I love you. Waiting. Even as the words never sink in, I'm still waiting. Why?
It's silly. We all hate to admit that we write love poems. But my love poems aren't opaque pools of a lover's eyes. I could never be so crafty. They're letters, letters to a boy who just doesn't understand. Maybe he never will.
The funniest part of all this? People say I give great relationship advice. They say that I understand people. Ha. I constantly psychoanalyze people because I'm trying to rationalize us. I'm trying to understand you and I.
The only conclusion I've come up with thus far is: being your friend fucking sucks. I hope you know that. I hope you know how hard it is for me.
Eh. I have to see you tomorrow, don't I? No. Maybe I'll just blow you off. Not even tell you. Hide out in some other corner of the world where you can't find me.
I won't, though.