Packing/resorting for the new year, getting kind of excited. Have finally reached a sort of revitalization, even though I'm kind of tired physically. Anyway, found my old 03-06 journal. Tinkerbell is on the cover, but the inside is fascinating. People are fascinating, myself included.
I just wish I could remember if I was earnest back then, or only kidding myself.
edit:
just compiled pretty much the only remaining writing from my rough time, found in another random notebook which I just trashed.. interesting to read it now, it just drips with disconnect and anguish and self-hatred and alienation. man.
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An airport is a surreal place to be when you don't even feel like living. (this was scribbled out but i could still read it)
You sit there with your alloted two pieces of carry-on luggage, plagued with the traditional reservations of an non-frequent flier- the chief being "what if I've made a mistake along the way?"-- checking inside your now overstuffed purse every two minutes to make sure your boarding pass and cellphone and ID are all in their proper and accessible place. You're traveling alone- first time, come to think of it, but you really don't think of it because its never been an issue. You're here at Gate 47 and it was all easier than you thought, to be honest, but you aren't thinking of that too much and you're certainly not honest.
What you are is hoping you'll stat thinking about flying alone, making mistakes, sitting next to an ill and or psychotic basket-case with no respect for personal space. Dying, crashing, you almost wish that terrified you.
It doesn't, actually. And you can't for the life of you be afraid because more than anything you're scared of your lack of foresight, lack of anything.
It's funny, you think, to be in a place like this, a palce where previously you'd just casually people-watch and wonder about their personal lives, who they love, who they're going to see, where they're from and if they'd had the same breakfast you had. Now you find yourself consumed with fear about their pasts. What horrible things have you done, mother of two? What was the worst thing you've ever done, and did anyone ever find out?
These people are me, these horrible people are all me and I belong with them at Gate 47. I hope the plane never boards, all we'll leave is each other. Eventually we'll murder one another for linty mentos found at the bottom of handbags and cracker crumbs and juice boxes-- a mere step before we turn to cannibalism and eventually do the world a service by wiping ourselves out.
I hate myself even more for wondering it. Child molester? He's probably the nicest person in the ever. He's probably an angel in disguise, or God, even, testing me. I wish God wouldn't est me, especially when I've already proven myself a failure in His imperfect world.
another day:
This is the point where someone is supposed to call but no one does.
One thing I wish you'd all have told me was I was making your life so miserable. I wish, I knew I had things that had to be dealt with but I didn't know that I was perceived as some kind of psychopath who must be tolerated.
And by the by, most of those times you thought I was trying to make anyone feel guilty, I wasn't.
I just didn't know what to say.
Another day:
Stories with no one to tell them to, the moon, the moon.
The lamp that reminds me of your earrings.... just a billion more to regret.
Another day:
Everyone's an opportunist. I see it in everyone and I hate it.
Punishing schedules and myriad affiliations provide ties that are all too illusory. People experience profound dissonance because they are in the company of others but NOT TRULY CONNECTED TO THEM.
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