Words
*I want to preface this by explaining this is a “greatest hits,” so to speak, of lines from my journal. These lines range from March to September.*
I want to write thoughts. Incomplete sentences. I want to sculpt words. I want to figure it out through writing.
Sometimes I wonder if I am capable of loving enough. Do I have enough love in me? Sometimes I wonder if I am capable of being loved enough.
I think of epic love, the trials & tribulations of a love so grand it is more than either person. Is that what makes everlasting love?
I can honestly say I don’t know—after the love I have loved, and received, the tears, the laughter, the want for a moment to stretch out endlessly, the late nights, the dreams, the anticipation and excitement, the disappointment and regret, the impossible recognition that some pain should never be experienced, that some pain exists beyond what you think is possible (sinking down to the floor in a wall of tears). After all this, I can say, I do not know what love is.
I am surprised that my scars are taking so long to heal.
I was in a garden with large roses and exotic flowers. The flowers were encroaching on stone paths, which were narrow.
Sometimes I do not know what I am doing. When I am hurt, or fearful, or angry. I feel I detach from myself. I wonder where I go.
I took you into my home and made it our home, he said. A home. I haven’t’ had a home. I want a home. Idealism. Optimism.
Bitter defeat comes creeping in my space. Where’s my monster? Caged, temporarily? He’s always outgrowing that cage.
i’m supposed to think of the origins of my behaviors. What if I was born this way? With a monster.
I’m selfish.
I determined I am addicted to reckless behavior. I am addicted to pain. It’s like I keep tempting fate. Suicide by life.
The things I thought made me happy don’t. I don’t really know when I’m happy. I feel like I’m covered by a blanket of despair. That’s clichéd.
Perhaps I finally feel worthy of love.
I feel like Eve after the fall. I am now postlapsarian.
It seems to me I keep writing the same things over and over.
I wonder what would happen if I gave over completely to that other side, if I just stopped fighting.
And they were all vivisected.
I was flying around the chandeliers, screaming like a banshee, but no one could hear me. I had to cover my tracks, and used a cat to conceal my footprints.
I made a little net out of spider thread, and caught the wind.
I flew up and high on the wind, occasionally landing on a pine tree. It got too cold, and started to snow. I can’t fly in the cold.
