i had a horrible dream last night. when i woke up, i was immensely happy that it had not happened and that the reality which i inhabit is far more forgiving and far less paralyzing than the world of stupid, stupid dreams.

angels

every day, and another attempt.

When I am at the bookstore last week, once of my twice-weekly ventures to accumulate a library of my own to carry with me, I am in the row where the F's are and this guy approaches me, and he has a slip of paper, and he says, "You're beautiful. Please call me."
I learn too late- after I have stupidly obeyed- that I was not obligated to call, that it is not within the rules of proprietry to do whatever a stranger tells you at the risk of being rude. He's a genuinely nice guy, but I am afraid of him because he is a stranger. And now I have this person at my side, and they have Expectations of me and of my "beautiful eyes" and I can't bear them, none of them. I turn the terrifying sound off the phone and I hide it from myself so I will not hear it ring nor will I see its lights as he calls, Expecting. I hate meeting people. I wish I was invisible. I want to throw up every time I think of it.
And all of this scares me because if I hate meeting people as much as I do and if I have jump at the every heavy tone of a ringing telephone ring, how am I ever going to get outside of where I am now?
I have barely any of the people I used to have in my daily life. I took them for granted when they were there, when I was in their company every day, and now they have their lives from which I have passed, and I can't be a part of it anymore. That's natural, I guess, except for that I can't move on to anything, because of my fear, and now I am lonely. I also feel as if my brain is splitting and rotting, and I have less than half of my mind left. I am growing stupider by the day.
This is not self-pity, but this is release. Please prove to me that I'm not alone, I beg you. Please don't leave me to the strangers.

hungry

I have lots of questions, per usual. Sometimes I am afraid that all I am capable of thinking, speaking anymore are questions, questions. I feel stupider with every new day and with every new onslaught of questions and questions.

-what is the difference between guilt and gratitude?
-is there any way I can move on in my life without everything, including myself, becoming foreign and therefore paralyzing?
-why can't I think of anything to say to God?
-why is my brain melting?
-is it true that in order to be a good person, you must undergo immense suffering and hardship before you can pass on to the status of a "worthy" person?

hungry

I am marginally invested in my life now, not because I am dissatisfied with what I have because I am not but because I am afraid of the things I have- guilt does not equal gratitude, so am I really grateful? -do I understand the magnitude of what leisures with which I am endowed and of what responsibilities I have? I feel grief and guilt for the amazing things with which I am gifted. That's a really stupid reaction, though.
"Don't judge your emotions," is the next common refrain; I have been told this countless times and I listen unconsciously- "but observe them with objectivity."

I have lots of questions, per usual:

-

emaciated

Bless you! Bless you! Bless you! Bless you! Bless you!
Somebody sneezed seven times, and I only covered them for five.

"wrongfully i rested"

i have listened to a solitary cd innumerably for a week now. a scathing, soothing, invariable repitition: bordering dementia it would appear. turn it back on again and again and again and again and again but it's perfectly rational, for me
sometimes i simply like to know what is coming

sleep

I love sweeping. I think sweeping is one of the gentlest things a person can do. Whenever I’m at a place like a restaurant or the stage of a theater and I see someone in a uniform with a broom, and when I watch their backwards and their forwards, the progressions and the regressions, the opposites that make up the swaying at their elbows, I fall a little in love, especially if they are meticulous. That means they can maybe love somebody who is alive, even if it’s not me. And maybe they already do, at home, or a stranger they see everyday on the street; maybe they are already very meticulously in love. I am not equating sweeping to love: that is too obvious. And if somehow I am, well I don’t mean to be doing it.