Oct 17, 2006 02:51
I still think [about], all the time. I still dream a lot [also], not by half much as I used to, but every few days at least-wise I will dream [of] and each day I wake up from one of those dreams I feel like screaming all day, minute by minute. and on other days also, it's there always, a present understanding, in the back of my mind, aware to me at all, times-wise, and not forgotten when I am having fun, and when I am sad, equally. Each time some one asks me how I am, that voice in my head says my [......] is gone, as if I want to answer how I am with that communication, even though [...] didn't just die. even though it isn't recent, it feels that way still-wise. I feel like talking about it also. only no one wants to here about something that happened long ago now, it's only when it's recent, and newly sore, and newly lost, that you had the opportunity to convey what to me was, at that time, too personal, too private, too scary, too much my own and not for sharing. and now I want to, but I don't have anything to say. How can you convey to another just what something means to you? No one seems to know me, it seems there is no one to know just what it is that means to me, and it's my own fault anyway, for being too private to begin with. How can someone know something about something important in my life if I never mentioned it ever because that's just the way I am? and how I am is that which is wasted. how shameful it is that that that this should be what it is for me the opposite. I mean, that what was wanted I can not do. that is, I have the ability to make myself a human? do I not? don't we all? and zi allow myself to be trapped in the mire of desperation, despondency, damaged life, unrepaired failings. Sometimes I don't want to be anything at all, because I don't want to exist at all, and I don't have whatever it would take to mark that box and sign on the dotted line, one's life away, too wasted today. always.
How can one convey to another just what something means to one?