I know the only reason I think of you so much is because I have nothing better to do with my day.
I still wish you were here.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
turn around
Why do you suddenly pretend to care now?
You have never been a pillar of support - what makes you think I will turn to you now, when I most need someone I can actually trust? And you will tell me to my face that my behaviour is not normal, and you will expect me to step up and take control of a life I'm still coming to terms with?
Oh, well done. Perhaps I'll have that therapy, after all.
***
I'm terribly unhappy. I wish you were here. I need to talk to someone. Won't you please come by and be nice to me?
You have never been a pillar of support - what makes you think I will turn to you now, when I most need someone I can actually trust? And you will tell me to my face that my behaviour is not normal, and you will expect me to step up and take control of a life I'm still coming to terms with?
Oh, well done. Perhaps I'll have that therapy, after all.
***
I'm terribly unhappy. I wish you were here. I need to talk to someone. Won't you please come by and be nice to me?
FAT FAT FAT
Here's a high flight: do I really expect someone else to judge anything using the same yardsticks I mark out for myself? Indeed it's stunning to see how often I am the one to blame in all my dealings with people (all except my mother - is that meaningful, doctor?)...
It's strange to see that I have withdrawn into my shell again. Strange perhaps because it does not seem as much an act of hiding now as it did five-six-seven years ago. I begin composing the messages of cheer when I am of good cheer, but then I stop somewhere in the middle of a strangely involved sentence and decide that the story would be better left untold.
(unremembered?)
How much of my life do I want to remember, anyhow? How well do I want to remember it? Do I want to remember all the things he said and all the things she did and all the ways the rabbit was the most adorable guest we have ever had, or am I content to let my mind set aside a single strand of memory for all the little things?
Talking is pointless if there is nobody listening, and I worry that I begin to repeat myself. Repetition, it is boredom. What would I do if I bored myself? Why do I feel as though it is not a result very unlikely? How much external validation can a person crave, truly?
where is my love
horses galloping
bring him to me
I worry about being a lonely broken person with no one to love her.
It's strange to see that I have withdrawn into my shell again. Strange perhaps because it does not seem as much an act of hiding now as it did five-six-seven years ago. I begin composing the messages of cheer when I am of good cheer, but then I stop somewhere in the middle of a strangely involved sentence and decide that the story would be better left untold.
(unremembered?)
How much of my life do I want to remember, anyhow? How well do I want to remember it? Do I want to remember all the things he said and all the things she did and all the ways the rabbit was the most adorable guest we have ever had, or am I content to let my mind set aside a single strand of memory for all the little things?
Talking is pointless if there is nobody listening, and I worry that I begin to repeat myself. Repetition, it is boredom. What would I do if I bored myself? Why do I feel as though it is not a result very unlikely? How much external validation can a person crave, truly?
where is my love
horses galloping
bring him to me
I worry about being a lonely broken person with no one to love her.
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