So this is for you.
Some days, I know that you are the only one who understands me. Which isn�t always a good thing, because you see through me, as well. You know that I feel like a fraud, that I watch my father�s downfall inhabiting me like some cancer of the spirit, slowly, day after day. Doubt. Fear. I would be rid of them (I like to tell the world), but I embrace them wholeheartedly, on occasion. If I am to fail, it will not be because I put it all on the line and still can't manage to achieve a realistic fusion between my passions and my future, it will be because I choose it. I choose to lose. Disgusting, yet comforting; it yields me more disappointment, intermixed with a sticky-sweet secret pride that I still have control over something in my life. You see this, yet you are indifferent to my failures, as well as my successes. That hurts even more.
I told you once that I would die for a cause. Do anything to wholeheartedly believe in something. But you see, that was all bullshit. Because I will never dive in, let go, or relinquish more than tiny increments of myself at a time. I will never write the Great American Novel, I will never have an orgasm so intense that my toes curl up and my eyeballs roll back and I don�t care who sees me scream like some sort of sweaty ape on Ecstasy; I will never, I will never�. It�s so easy to say. This you know, too.
Thank you for seeing me. Understanding me. Dismissing me. Maybe that�s what I need now, on this Day of Independence.
I want to begin from the ground up, so maybe I needed to be torn down first.
I swear to you, I just don�t know where to begin. I don�t want your help. I don�t want your pity, and I don�t want your apathy, either. I don�t know. Maybe I just want to get this much out.
Maybe I just want to be heard.
4:50 p.m. - 2001-07-04
Recent entries:
cliffhanger - 2005-11-12
Mary - 2005-02-08
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Propaganda - 2004-02-20
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