She said I was distant and still very much there; I was daydreaming about places I've never been and who I'd take with me. I hate my indecision, my faith in uncertainty alone, my equivocating heart, but if I'm lucky I just haven't become used to getting it right.
I keep wanting to write things, realizing they're too explicit, watering them down, and forgetting what I meant to say in the first place. That's not to say that they make sense when they're banging around my skull, but the hope is that I can maybe extract some coherence from them or at least get some peace and quiet upstairs.
I'd try for a poem or song but the words and lines in my head are all look but don't touch, like the Elves' dinner in Mirkwood. I'm steadily losing my willingness to make sense, realize that my syntax is convuluted and irrational and don't change it. I should not be writing on here before I write an English essay; I have the order all wrong and considering that there are only two activities in question I must have screwed up pretty badly.
Language has degraded to stark somethings and I will have stopped writing by now.
posted on Sunday, November 02, 2003
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