i have a really nice
bathroom. not that it's big or luxurious but the edge of the tub is high and
flat and good for sitting on. you can put your feet up on the toilet and lean
on the sink. i seem to spend a lot of time in there. it's good for having
meltdowns. it's good for realising that nothing you do, puking or cutting or
crying or starving, is going to make any real difference.
i don't know how to be an
actual person.
i wish i had a sibling.
someone who could see my parents and what they did to me and not just what
wonderful lovely people they are. i'm sure they are. usually it's better when
you don't know people all the way through. or maybe i'm just
being pessimistic, watching too much six feet under and realising the only character i identify
with is brenda because my parents fucked me up as much as hers. because it's
beyond normal family fucked-up-ness. i don't know how many hyphens to put in
that non-word. i do not know how to be a real person and i feel shattered.
and i am expected to do things still and act as though nothing is wrong.
what even is wrong? my
diagnosis would be a short novella. there's a word for that but i can't think
of what it is. sestina is a poem with a lovely repetitious rhyme scheme. novel,
novella, what's the other one? probably i threw up any intelligence i had left
this morning. as if that word would even apply to me. i propose to break genre
and form barriers with all the books i intend but never will write.
and today was supposed to
be a good day. fuck. i'm sorry. i never write anything positive here. i can't
say i'm terribly positive these days.
i will say however that
hemingway has been saving my life of late. he makes me remember to breathe. i
love the long-dead writers, i love their words, their body of work. they are
already dead and as such they cannot disappoint. i can only cherish what they
were. removed nostalgia of the warm and enveloping sort. i want to be alive in
my words and not my body.
i suppose i've got to write
something first.
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