Aug 22, 2009 02:15
I have written small notes in my ubiquitous journal, including two pre-drafts of a poem, but every time I write a nice entry in there I seem to miss a day of sleep and then the world comes crashing down the next day - I can't concentrate, and several times I wept openly at my desk.
I watch faces go past me like visitors at a zoo. Only my mother asks how I'm doing. I feel like I wear everything on my face, so I can't understand how people don't realise I need someone to say hello. I can't say hello. I eat takeout or a whole tomato with salt sprinkling on it because I can't bear to cook. I don't do laundry, and I don't clean up.
Then, the next morning, I'm fine.
Tim says I'm bipolar. I think it's less serious than that. I just haven't remembered how to shovel dirt on my feelings fast enough to avoid them surfacing like I used to. Then, they were hands clawing from the grave until broken by the face of a shovel - now I actually feel them rather than just experience. The difference is magnitudes.
That or it's just sugar crashes. I do have quite the sweet tooth.
I'm told I have to make a decision about what I want the family to get me for my 30th. Really, all I can think of asking for is a nice suit and a good pair of gloves. Everything else is dreams I should realise myself.
Sometimes I worry that life is passing me by. Sometimes I wish there was more time to just sit and be with Benjamin - give him a hongi and let him climb on top of me. I can sleep with the door open now that the seasons have changed here, and the birds have started up in the early morning hours that I've become accustomed to keeping in the last 6 weeks. Monday I start a new job and I'll be getting up at 7am rather than staying up till 2am. I will miss them. I tried recording them, but microphones don't work like ears so they, and the night-traffic, are drowned beneath a wall of wind.
I've started reading again. I was going to go to the library, but someone never returned my library card before they left the country.