I remember when…

I remember when I was younger I would write the most emotional, vague, word-filled Xanga posts that I thought were genius.  In them it was like I would tell everything but the truth–that gray area between a lie and what you really want to say.  Now, honesty is all I want to write about/for/from.

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I’m mad.  Mad…

I’m mad.  Mad for everything and mat at everything.  I feel so strongly for all things, for all nouns.  And yet I feel nothing for the most transitive verbs.

Peoples’ histories, their families, their secrets, and their humilities.  I’ve never needed my own to be so guarded all at once so badly and so immediately.  And that feeling of protection that I crave should never be this severe.  I’m so safe that I’m exposed.

Also, the blinds.  Never pull up the blinds.  Keep the bars there.

“Don’t think….

“Don’t think.  Just do it,” he thought to himself.  Of course it would take Mozart’s Requiem to push himself to this kind of edge.  The movement?  Lacrimosa.  Latin for ‘tears’.  Or maybe Greek.  It feels as dead as Latin or as anemic as Greek.

It feels.  I feel–that’s what I meant.  I feel as dead as Latin or as anemic as Greek.