09.Feb.2004
Navigation System?!
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yes, larry david.
I am listening to beautiful Autechre music as though I were still immersed in the womb, and it beckons a kind of joy I barely recognize.
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Ugh. How horrifically melodramatic was that statement? I suppose I digress.
I have been digging through several layers of myself on the Lord's Day of Rest, and I urge everyone among me to partake of the same. My books, my passions, my Thomas Moore, my Chuck Palahniuk, my Henry Longfellow, my silly endeavors at prose and at poetry, my classicalism versus staunchly my contemporary inamoratos ...
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I miss them. Him. Him. And. Him. Possibly him. I miss them because I feel perfect, because I feel edified, briefly, in the structure of the universe, the numbers, the passions, and everything in between. Though I know it must ostensibly appear featherbrained to the more intellective of my anonymous lot, I feel innocent and curious, as I am often wont to, about those memories others attempt to stifle.
I feel momentarily complete.
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You and that grazing, insane continuity. You will collapse as I will stop. I want to know the exact moment when it will change. I want to know the last thought you will ever harbor when the empirical eddy of you dies. I want to know if I am the last breath you will take. I want to know just how sorry you will be for all of us.
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There are too many thoughts. They are laughably insubstantial.
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I haven't heard from you and your cohorts in a while. I hope you are still as miserable without this as you were manipulating it. You will continue to assume I type of you. This time, you will be correct. In the end, in the most congenial, honey-fucked manner, I will wrestle you to the ground, and I mean this with adoration of who you used to be.
I am a continuously lonely girl of grand intentions without your presence forever dictating my involuntary actions. You were just the hands that elevated me to orgasm. You have served your purpose.
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Loneliness is normal. Despair, animosity, hate, love, devotion, et al, are normal. They are ingredients to my existence. I fall back upon them in case every succeeding defense mechanism fails.
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He laid compassionate hands upon my head and told me, in a voice as clear and bruising as all of my silly aims, "I will not let you become weak. You were always strong. You will not become that girl who bottles everything inside merely to cry herself to sleep in her bedroom."
As David, my brother, strolled away, he called over his blank, narrow shoulder, "You will not become our mother."
I sucked on my fag.
He said distantly, "It's only because I care about you."
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For everything that does not presently reside on the inside of me, I feel purified. I have a mission. I have something to prove. I have something to prove everyone incorrect in their hasty evaluations.
I have a fucking navigation system.
I have something for which I should remain supercilious.
And I still do, and I still will.
And those stifling memories will never subtract that from who I am becoming.
I might, however, pine for your destruction from the other side.
It's the only comfortable thing you had to offer.
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time & machine