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2009-10-03 / 1:06 a.m. I'm afraid to be honest in this place anymore. I don't want to write on paper because that's not what I do. Not anymore. Paper sits around as remnants of angry thoughts and it's so impermanent but yet so solid. It's not safe. I lay on my bed today and tried not to dwell on the fact that I am so unhappy. I tell myself every day that I will leave my house and I will do things by myself because they need to be done. There is no harm in being alone. I know this, and I trust this, but it's different when I'm outside and I can't help but be unable to turn my ability to interact with my surroundings up a notch. Can't turn off my inability to stop thinking, to stop feeling. Life right now reminds me of those toys we used to have. There was a long strip of a cartoon that was on a sort of wheel behind a plastic screen, and you could wind it up with a little plastic knob and it'd play out the strip in a loop and a loop and a loop and it'd play music like a little music box. But we never paid attention to the story, not really. It was always about making sure that the toy was wound enough so that it'd keep going on and on and on in that sad, sad way that only children's toys can do. |