June 12, 2004
A Bottle of Dumb
What happened to pouring out one's heart and soul? What happened to being able to find the words, to shaping smoke-like thoughts into the stark black reality of typeset?
I feel like, somewhere along the way, between driving from Cincinnati to Oxford, Oxford to Cincinnati; from asking the thirty-seventh customer of the day if they were interested in the online newsletter, from the absent minded scowl of rejection; from the homelessness, the travel bags stuffed with t-shirts, panties, novels, my transient nature...
I think I've lost myself, or a vital bit of myself. Drudgery can kill a person swifter than any poison.
Do I make up for a void with the mindless filling up of sex? The pieces of me that grow hot and flushed, swollen so to make what is not there seem to never have been? It isn't fair of me to patch myself up with his eager flesh. The tearing away, each time, only gets more difficult.
I just want... time. A Woolf-esque room of my own, and the money to preserve that room for its purposes. I want a cup of coffee, warming near the mouse pad, and keys I can find my way across in the dark, the delicate clicking of my mind into place.
I feel tired.
I feel desperate.
astera at 12:52 p.m.