love is all there is... | |
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12:46 p.m. || 2003-04-20 | I purged again last night. I hate myself. I'm so fricking depressed about it. But, today, I won't let it get the best of me. I won't let this bulimic monster inside me control me today. I refuse. Damn it. I am very angry about giving in last night, and I will use that to make it through this damn day. It's been rainy lately, and so beautiful. Everything is cloaked in mist, and the grass looks so bright against the backdrop of the grey sky. Like a technicolor presummer fling. I wish I was a tree, with graceful limbs and leaves that simmer in the wind, and sing in the breeze... Or maybe a squirrel, hazel-nut colored and chatterboxed.. scampering up and down slender tree arms, my cheeks stuffed with fresh nuts...unaware of the pain that is humanity. The rain cleanses, makes everything fresh.. perhaps I wish I was a raindrop. Can you imagine how it would feel to freefall thousands of feet and smash brilliantly and finally against the earth, with just a little splash... then seep into the musty dirt only to later be reborn again amidst the cotton candy fluff of a cloud...To be a single patter, a single note, in the music that a thunderstorm makes? Would the rain sound differently if you never fell, and what if you fell against a soft, pale cheek or never made a sound? I notice the oddest things.. things I don't think many others think about. But maybe they do and I am just naieve.. Maybe I am not any different than anyone else. Maybe that is why I disappear so readily... I like to feel my bare feet on pavement and to touch the cracks in the ground, to admire the different textures that can be found there, and I like the way the power lines overlap the border of the forests, like a fence protecting, like a cage trapping... I like to see a little grey bird hanging on the telephone lines, and to hear the sound of the washing machine humming softly, whirling, swishing. I like the warmth of the steaming dishwasher against my hands as it dries the dishes, and I like the smell of my cat's fur after she washes herself, so clean and wet and earthy. I like to watch the background in movies, I like to dig my toes into the fresh clean sheets of my bed and just feel them there, and I like to run my tongue against my lips when they are cracked. I like to touch and smell and taste and consider.. I like to experience.. This is probably what is wrong with me. My favorite movies have magic and hope. Whimsical concotions that I can lose myself in, that I can drift away from this cruel life into. I like to dream, to hope, to want... But I never want any of it to be real. What is real, anyway?
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