nothing like

[there's] nothing like this that can make me realise i miss you the moment you step out of my room

so if you don't mind/i think i'll wear my heart on my sleeve/because i'm tired of not being able to breathe/all of us are searching for an open arm/well, it's a shame how i pull myself apart/when it's the same words making me run for cover to your arms all of us, blindside

dance night shots. yum

over and above anything in my memory of the past, is everything i've known with my skin. it is not a matter of choice but a matter of being. i wish i were apologetic, but for nothing in this world would i trade any of my mistakes. because man is of the earth, and love is of the man, wherefore the unspeakableness of the visceral? i havent bothered to count the days, and won't, but i think i've been clean for two months. but what for? health and fitness and intellect are for the day; what then is reserved as the exclusive right of the night?

sex is never the right thing to do and drugs are wrong. with the threat of hellfire in the afterworld, i should be eating my tofu. never should have convinced myself that i knew what i wanted.

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances. Edgar Allan Poe

"we'll take up where we left off, esther," she had said, with her sweet, martyr's smile. "we'll act as if all this were a bad dream."
a bad dream.
to the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.
a bad dream.
i remembered everything.
i remembered the cadavers and doreen and the story of the fig-tree and marco's wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds i gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a grey skull.
maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them.
but they were part of me. they were my landscape

who's to say? who's to say when you're out the door and when you're not? because everything is dead. dead as the silent still desert night. there are no lines and everything is grain after grain after grain. sometimes i think i can make it and i take a gulp of air and gallop into the world. at the end of it rancour fills my heart and lungs and i go back to my room to vomit

i dont know what it is but i am faced with crippling disability when i put myself down to something i always thought i wanted to do. like this. maybe it is that the anticipation in itself has substituted my want for the whole. and so it is with the other things. often the only satisfaction i get is only perceived future satisfaction - past the anticipation and anything else after that is a big letdown. so, now i am back to the point with crippling disability, because this is where i start writing and meaning.

smack in the middle of the year. i am still stewing in my cauldron except this time things are holding together in a way i couldnt imagine a year ago. but still i am boiling in my own juices, my never's and nowhere's. this year i turn eighteen and already i can see myself dying. i am terribly frightened of being an adult - even the clothes, they are too warm. i am not unfamiliar with many parts of adulthood. i have known many yes-and-buts, been stuck in too many never-and nowhere's. i have been wrung dry of the yes-or-no that i so desperately believed in, at least i think so. there has been too much, and i am sure all the damage is showing.

right now the one thing i want most is to talk to daryl, strangely enough. its been three years since and i havent seen him in one, talked to him in three. but then i remember that lynnette messaged me last week, and i see all the hyphens stringing through words. they reach out into my future like the living branches of plath's fig tree and strangle my vain hopes for love. the best i can do now is to anticipate that day. then that will be the time when i am again unable to live with myself and if i am lucky i will be in the state i am in now. already i can see myself having to live every single day until the one where i die.

  I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig-tree in the story.
     From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.  One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America...and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.
     I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.  I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet. Plath, The Bell Jar