Shortbread.
This week has been terrible. Today is especially bad. Although, I'm almost halfway through Catcher in the Rye and feeling a little less abrasive, so that's a good sign.
I've been writing horrific fumbling paragraphs lately that I can't bear to look at. I have the oddest sensation that I'm not being correctly understood, as though my limited language has been so desperately mauled as to no longer reflect my original intentions.
"Sometimes I think that I should stop trying to communicate altogether. I'm having trouble connecting these nuerological firings to actual words; relying too heavily on an expansive vocabulary in place of comprehension. The frustration is, at times, so overwhelming as to send me into a comatose state- doing nothing other than lethargically willing my body to exist. My letters have become entirely incoherent, which begs the question: Why do I keep writing at all? I suppose I just want tobe understood; and prior attempts have resulted in devastating failure. He trivializes my angst, the things that matter most and I rebel against logical sentance formation in an attempt to send my desperate longing out into the stratosphere. This is a very Kurt Kobain, Courtney Love relationship- only without the sex or drugs or rock & roll. My current instinct is to abandon all sensibility and crawl back under the covers to just slumber. This odd desire has come over me, this desire to take back everything that he knows about me and put it back in its place, back in its little compartment. Make myself a mystery."
He smiles so sweetly.
I've been writing horrific fumbling paragraphs lately that I can't bear to look at. I have the oddest sensation that I'm not being correctly understood, as though my limited language has been so desperately mauled as to no longer reflect my original intentions.
"Sometimes I think that I should stop trying to communicate altogether. I'm having trouble connecting these nuerological firings to actual words; relying too heavily on an expansive vocabulary in place of comprehension. The frustration is, at times, so overwhelming as to send me into a comatose state- doing nothing other than lethargically willing my body to exist. My letters have become entirely incoherent, which begs the question: Why do I keep writing at all? I suppose I just want tobe understood; and prior attempts have resulted in devastating failure. He trivializes my angst, the things that matter most and I rebel against logical sentance formation in an attempt to send my desperate longing out into the stratosphere. This is a very Kurt Kobain, Courtney Love relationship- only without the sex or drugs or rock & roll. My current instinct is to abandon all sensibility and crawl back under the covers to just slumber. This odd desire has come over me, this desire to take back everything that he knows about me and put it back in its place, back in its little compartment. Make myself a mystery."
He smiles so sweetly.