The Enemy of the Good (eideteker) wrote,
The Enemy of the Good

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I hate this.

I hate when I go out on a long walk and I'm alone with my thoughts and I have so many of them, and they're so vibrant and noisy, and I come home so worked up and yet no longer able burn so pure. The log keeps getting hotter and hotter but it can't spark and ignite...

I was very mod today; new shirt, new pants (two sizes smaller than my old ones), new shiny (comfy, thank GOD) shoes, and a nice tie. I hit the streets, and looked pretty good. But I felt disgusting. I slept better last night, and I'm hungry, but I still don't want to eat, know what I mean? I was bright and cheery but let's face it, it's already Wed. This week is pretty much over.

I can barely believe all that's happened to me recently. I hate not putting it all down, now that I'm so used to journalling, but I've already said too much. No one needs to be blamed here. I'd like to get it out by talking to Michelle, for many reasons. Because I don't want any more scandal. Because I respect her and love her. Because I am not used to having no one to turn to for the deepest consolation after 8 months. But it's going to be hard for her, though, to talk to me.

Fuck, forgot where that paragraph was going. Like I said, it's hard to go back to thoughts once I've had them. I only know what I thought; not how I thought it.

Listened to Filter on the walk home; on the way out it was Shiner, but I could barely take that. I couldn't even LOOK at my Jawbox CD for more than a few seconds. I wanted to cry so bad, but I couldn't. And I thought, what if I can't cry without her? I learned to cry with her, but did I learn to cry on my own? Can I weep? Can I mourn? Can I help feeling like a loser for a little while? Because I have lost. I've lost the most fantastic girl I ever knew.

And I realized what it was to share with someone. She's the first girl to share musical tastes with me. I've never had to regain music like this. It's odd. Singing loud helps, except when I remember how adorable she thought my singing was, and how many times I sang so loud that I'd hoped she could hear me 3,000 mi. away.

And "Take My Picture" came on, and I immediately thought of airplanes, flying to and from her presence; to and from Joy. And then I almost fell down on the sidewalk when it said, "Hey, Dad, what do you think about your son now?" Well, Dad, what the fuck do you think? Your son is paying for your insecurity; your indecision, by trusting unconditionally and being hurt rather than withdrawing and never trusting because you weren't trustworthy. And I'm sure he'd be ashamed, rather than proud. Ashamed of himself instead of relishing his son's unwillingness to admit defeat. And sometimes I hate him for that because now I can never be sure what I'm doing is not for selfish reasons.

I'll deal.

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