Sometimes I zone out in a crowd of people and just see the shuffling of bodies. Flesh moving in different directions, moving away from each other, moving away from me. I hear these distant sounds of creaking doors, these swooshes and clicks. I want to call out to them. I want to be a part of this, of them. I want to be here, but I'm not. I'm looking for love, but I don't know how to ask you. I don't know if I can. If it's even my place.
This world of ideas I live in is lonely and cold and sad. I want the warmth of your body. I want the melodies of your voice to call me back to existence. I want you and I to matter just as much as power and sex and death. I want to enjoy the temporarility of it all. I want to be beautiful.
Tuesday, October 5
I can't sleep. I only come to you on such occasions. Life is tough shit for a blog, I guess...
I wonder if people see straight through me, if they see right down to my bones how disingenuous I am. I'm not really here; as much as I want to be. Where is Athia? Somewhere else. I've rigged the mechanics of these limbs to move in sync, but I don't belong here---not in this world, not with these people. I can't seem to ground myself in the present. It hurts because I want to.
I want to change. I want the world to change. I say it so loudly and so often that you can hardly trust me anymore, no? It's just that I'm at a loss. I don't know how to start. I keep stopping at the first. I keep writing the first paragraph over and over again, attempting to block off my good intentions into neat frames, but before I know it I've said nothing. Time is up. Moving on. I haven't finished, but we're all moving on, moving along, moving to stay alive and clean and well.
I can't sleep and I think of Emily Bronte. I think of Franz Kafka. I think of Virginia Woolf. I think of people who don't really belong here either. I think of the work that they tried to do and how reading their writing is a painful experience, because I experience truth. In any lifetime, a work of truth can only be written once. It's as though my body convulses in spasms from the honesty and passion---my first instinct being only to hide. A stronger body would be willing to embrace this knowledge and move on. A more able body would not tremble.
I tremble, often.
P.S. I don't take as many pictures as I would like anymore.