I sit here with my old dog, getting closer to eternity all the time, and it gets very depressing. What can I do? I had high hopes in myself and in the idea of an "us" over the past couple of years. It seemed we all did. But what does an evil old recluse do now that he's finally made it to his destination? Now that he's finally there in a crowd of strangers and he's hurt the one person who swore she'd never hurt him? Just sit and be evil? This is something quite difficult for any human, I imagine, unless he is an adept at evil and a 'made-man'.
The lack of overhead light lends a special dreary look to my bedroom. I'm surrounded by bitter reminders every day; the muddy snow outside, the gray-blue landscapes, that moment before the telephone rings and the sigh I'm forced to emit when there's no one on the receiving end. These streaks of dull russet ink make me sick but it's really no match to the disgust I feel knowing that I'm going to try again.
All I want to do is make an offer; start fighting and you will know who you are fighting. There is always a fight here. This is a war universe. I'm not afraid of being alone. This is the inherent way of life. I have realized the emptiness of anger and conflict that exists in our lives. I know the illusory nature of victory and vengeance in our world. There is no holy grail. There is nothing gratifying enough about being human which urges me to surround myself with another. Likewise, there is nothing intriguing nor passionate left in the person I once craved.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Some Religion
I am twenty-three years old, curled in the fetal position on my bed. I am a grown woman so lonely, I have twisted my body into a knot so small that I feel it may be tight enough to make me disappear and I hope that it does. I turn the air conditioning on and have striped myself bare; I'm shivering just to feel alive and wondering if I ought to feel this way at all.
How a person gets here, I wonder while the tears fall from my face. I'm writing at my computer so I don't have to blur pen ink across pages that I'll give back to the eath in days that pass. Nothing can stop the dark, dingy purple shades from creeping into my eyes from lack of sleep.
In Taoism, an affinity between life and death is part of the answer to either one specifically. In this particular moment, I don't even know if life is something to desire yet alone ponder the depth of. I started studying the Tao from afar as an activist dimension, believing that life could be prolonged by drawing on it's power. This by all practical definitions alludes to present-day fitness regimes having been prefigured in Taoist philosophy and practice: meaning that some things in modern society which exist make sense. These are aspects of life such as diet, exercise and using natural substances to strengthen health. Chinese alchemy focuses greatly on life prolongation and it was mirrored later in western development.
So while in bed, shivering in the cool air, thinking, crying and not wanting to move which included the contraction and expansion of my lungs within my chest. I am torn between two vicious choices. Do I continue to live and wonder in a cruel body which grants me a sound mind capable of thinknig and feeling-hard-to-swallow emotions, or do I die and perhaps reach the end where nothing is certain? Thinking of life, people are at least implicitly thinking of death. Human beings, being free-thinkers, are attracted to the idea of a life that somehow flourishes and renews, continuing despite a universe that seems so finite.
I used to listen to the story of Messrs Ssu, Yo, Lai and Li over and over again as a child. It was my favorite and perhaps is the reason I am so interested in the belief that those characters follow (the Tao) to this day. Anyway, the story goes that these four guys are good friends. They get together on a reagular basis in search for the truth from everything very complex to things quite simple. Ultimately, the friends realize that language will not help them. Well, one day, Lai gets very sick and it is obvious that he will die soon. His family is very upset by the news so they surround Lai to share stories of his life and sob in memory. That is, until Li shows up and tells them all to leave. Shh! Don't interrupt the process of change! He says. It is then that Messrs Ssu and Yo return to speculate with Li about what is to become of Lai. How extraordinary the great creator of life is, they imagine. Where will he go? What will be made from him next? They wonder until he dies and the three remaining friends return to their quest for truth.
The truth is that for now, I feel content. I can swallow my bad days in a few cool moments where I sob like a baby, but I surround myself with a solid, daily solace of generally good company. I realize that I am no Taoist nor do I seek to become one, but I find great comfort in knowing that in a place so far from here, there are people contemplating, with great discomfort, the same philosophical and religious questions I struggle with on a daily basis. It is time for some rejuvenating.
How a person gets here, I wonder while the tears fall from my face. I'm writing at my computer so I don't have to blur pen ink across pages that I'll give back to the eath in days that pass. Nothing can stop the dark, dingy purple shades from creeping into my eyes from lack of sleep.
In Taoism, an affinity between life and death is part of the answer to either one specifically. In this particular moment, I don't even know if life is something to desire yet alone ponder the depth of. I started studying the Tao from afar as an activist dimension, believing that life could be prolonged by drawing on it's power. This by all practical definitions alludes to present-day fitness regimes having been prefigured in Taoist philosophy and practice: meaning that some things in modern society which exist make sense. These are aspects of life such as diet, exercise and using natural substances to strengthen health. Chinese alchemy focuses greatly on life prolongation and it was mirrored later in western development.
So while in bed, shivering in the cool air, thinking, crying and not wanting to move which included the contraction and expansion of my lungs within my chest. I am torn between two vicious choices. Do I continue to live and wonder in a cruel body which grants me a sound mind capable of thinknig and feeling-hard-to-swallow emotions, or do I die and perhaps reach the end where nothing is certain? Thinking of life, people are at least implicitly thinking of death. Human beings, being free-thinkers, are attracted to the idea of a life that somehow flourishes and renews, continuing despite a universe that seems so finite.
I used to listen to the story of Messrs Ssu, Yo, Lai and Li over and over again as a child. It was my favorite and perhaps is the reason I am so interested in the belief that those characters follow (the Tao) to this day. Anyway, the story goes that these four guys are good friends. They get together on a reagular basis in search for the truth from everything very complex to things quite simple. Ultimately, the friends realize that language will not help them. Well, one day, Lai gets very sick and it is obvious that he will die soon. His family is very upset by the news so they surround Lai to share stories of his life and sob in memory. That is, until Li shows up and tells them all to leave. Shh! Don't interrupt the process of change! He says. It is then that Messrs Ssu and Yo return to speculate with Li about what is to become of Lai. How extraordinary the great creator of life is, they imagine. Where will he go? What will be made from him next? They wonder until he dies and the three remaining friends return to their quest for truth.
The truth is that for now, I feel content. I can swallow my bad days in a few cool moments where I sob like a baby, but I surround myself with a solid, daily solace of generally good company. I realize that I am no Taoist nor do I seek to become one, but I find great comfort in knowing that in a place so far from here, there are people contemplating, with great discomfort, the same philosophical and religious questions I struggle with on a daily basis. It is time for some rejuvenating.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Mind Play
"The creation of something new is not accomplished by intellect, but the playing instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the object it loves" - Carl Jung
Does a woman find her life in drugs for the same reason? I guess now my time as a user is all distant memory. In the moment, I found drugs a colorful arrangement of temptations for which I could play and be played with. I was not initially uncontrolled or completely dependent on the substances which I surrounded myself with. I found them an inlet to another state of mind or sense of emotion. It was much like the way I view artwork, granting it a power of influence great enough to arise various feelings. Art fails when it creates no alteration of it's viewer's emotion.
For a moment when I was eleven years old the world felt right. I had taken my first hit of marijuana and actually felt like i'd let it drag enough to feel that high. There is nothing in this world quite like the first puff of sweet, sweet green and the way her scent lingures. I think my interest in marijuana was out of curiousity at first. I was big into poetry then, too lazy to read novels, and I can remember it vividdlythat I'd been reading a book of Whitman when a friend passed the joint toward me. I inhaled, exhaled and thought for a few momemnts that I'd reached that point in life where it truly is as good as it gets. The next line I read was, "to be surrounded by beautiful, luminous, laughing flesh is enough," and it was on that day.
Later the weed I smoked was never good enough. I had smoked so much so frequently in a craze that my tolerance had built up and in many ways peaked. I could smoke in a circle of friends watching as they'd get high. I could smile, laugh and feel decently but I wasn't getting high anymore. I didn't feel anxious or paranoid and my laughter was not that of a mind on drugs. I thought about leaving and never coming back because I needed to find something that would make sticking around worth the while. It got to be hard to fly.
I suppose my first addiction was to pills. Opiates could kill me and not in the same context that they'd kill most users by overdosing. I am fatally allergic to them. I think I took ecstasy because I longed for that company of mind and would settle for the company of body which rolling brought. I needed to be with a lover those days and I never actaully knew what a lover was. Ecstasy was an entirely more complicated sense of awareness than just that of strangers and the contact which I desired from them. The lights were better; the music became enhanced. It created a surrounding that urged my body to move; to dance. I would breathe faster than I could think and often felt overheated. I remember a few times when there were sober, clean kids around just wanting to move and shake. They would offer water to users including me but too much water could be dangerous. In fact, everything in life seems potentially quite dangerous especially love and that is primarily what I was after. People's emotional lives are not linear like their waking lives. I wanted to find a source for all of the emotions of abandonment and loneliness I was going through. I figured if I had sex it was the most secure and passionate thing I could do. Instead, sex provided a certain numbness. It was that feeling of nothingness that made me feel tremendously uncomfortable and so I sought new medication.
Methadone is a prescribed drugused to suppress heroin addiction, often in amounts so high that hardcore junkies can harvest addictive qualities for it. I had a friend that was messed up on the needle and she never took the meth to get better so I took it because it was there and it was inexpensive, comparatively. I suppose it took about a week to become addicted and then it wasn't a matter of getting high, but being happy. Meth was one drug, one aspect of my life, that never wanted anything from me. I liked that for once in my life, I was the user.
LSD was a way to get away; it was a place I could visit and leave my body all together. I did some crazy things in this state. I remember taking showers fully clothed on a number of occasions and thinking I was somewhere very diffrent. Then I would lie on my bed or upon the floor drenched and wonder why I was so cold. It never dawned on me that I had just been in the shower. In many ways there is a part of me that went missing when I became hooked on LSD. I got caught up in discovering just how many areas of the brain are used for vision and I needed more than life to expand my line of sight. I'd hallucinate before I would ever consider closing my eyes. In some respects, I still feel this way only it is much more readily available to paint or draw than it is to take an acid trip. Now I can think back and it makes fair sense. I feel like I'm back on the right track but the reality of it is that I was not living then in this reality so I will never truly have those years back. It's just a memory of them which is difficult to take in sometimes.
There is a part of me that thinks this was crazy and irrational behaviour. I find myself thinking back on my life in the past only to discover that I've left every aspect behind without any hesitation. Every past relationship and many friendships, I have just taken off and figured the other individuals involved could use a little neglect seeing as I had endured a great deal up to that point. I guess, despite the loss of memory, rages and pits of depression which I'd gone through back then, I turned out okay. I might have a skewed way of laying it all out and I find myself restless with people more than I'd like to admit, but I have survived it and many people that care so much for junk like I did, don't survive. Twenty escasty tablets could have killed me and there were nights when they ought to have. I certainly don't know the reason that I breathe tonight, but for once, I can safely say that I'm okay with it. I'm a pretty damn thankful lunatic.
Does a woman find her life in drugs for the same reason? I guess now my time as a user is all distant memory. In the moment, I found drugs a colorful arrangement of temptations for which I could play and be played with. I was not initially uncontrolled or completely dependent on the substances which I surrounded myself with. I found them an inlet to another state of mind or sense of emotion. It was much like the way I view artwork, granting it a power of influence great enough to arise various feelings. Art fails when it creates no alteration of it's viewer's emotion.
For a moment when I was eleven years old the world felt right. I had taken my first hit of marijuana and actually felt like i'd let it drag enough to feel that high. There is nothing in this world quite like the first puff of sweet, sweet green and the way her scent lingures. I think my interest in marijuana was out of curiousity at first. I was big into poetry then, too lazy to read novels, and I can remember it vividdlythat I'd been reading a book of Whitman when a friend passed the joint toward me. I inhaled, exhaled and thought for a few momemnts that I'd reached that point in life where it truly is as good as it gets. The next line I read was, "to be surrounded by beautiful, luminous, laughing flesh is enough," and it was on that day.
Later the weed I smoked was never good enough. I had smoked so much so frequently in a craze that my tolerance had built up and in many ways peaked. I could smoke in a circle of friends watching as they'd get high. I could smile, laugh and feel decently but I wasn't getting high anymore. I didn't feel anxious or paranoid and my laughter was not that of a mind on drugs. I thought about leaving and never coming back because I needed to find something that would make sticking around worth the while. It got to be hard to fly.
I suppose my first addiction was to pills. Opiates could kill me and not in the same context that they'd kill most users by overdosing. I am fatally allergic to them. I think I took ecstasy because I longed for that company of mind and would settle for the company of body which rolling brought. I needed to be with a lover those days and I never actaully knew what a lover was. Ecstasy was an entirely more complicated sense of awareness than just that of strangers and the contact which I desired from them. The lights were better; the music became enhanced. It created a surrounding that urged my body to move; to dance. I would breathe faster than I could think and often felt overheated. I remember a few times when there were sober, clean kids around just wanting to move and shake. They would offer water to users including me but too much water could be dangerous. In fact, everything in life seems potentially quite dangerous especially love and that is primarily what I was after. People's emotional lives are not linear like their waking lives. I wanted to find a source for all of the emotions of abandonment and loneliness I was going through. I figured if I had sex it was the most secure and passionate thing I could do. Instead, sex provided a certain numbness. It was that feeling of nothingness that made me feel tremendously uncomfortable and so I sought new medication.
Methadone is a prescribed drugused to suppress heroin addiction, often in amounts so high that hardcore junkies can harvest addictive qualities for it. I had a friend that was messed up on the needle and she never took the meth to get better so I took it because it was there and it was inexpensive, comparatively. I suppose it took about a week to become addicted and then it wasn't a matter of getting high, but being happy. Meth was one drug, one aspect of my life, that never wanted anything from me. I liked that for once in my life, I was the user.
LSD was a way to get away; it was a place I could visit and leave my body all together. I did some crazy things in this state. I remember taking showers fully clothed on a number of occasions and thinking I was somewhere very diffrent. Then I would lie on my bed or upon the floor drenched and wonder why I was so cold. It never dawned on me that I had just been in the shower. In many ways there is a part of me that went missing when I became hooked on LSD. I got caught up in discovering just how many areas of the brain are used for vision and I needed more than life to expand my line of sight. I'd hallucinate before I would ever consider closing my eyes. In some respects, I still feel this way only it is much more readily available to paint or draw than it is to take an acid trip. Now I can think back and it makes fair sense. I feel like I'm back on the right track but the reality of it is that I was not living then in this reality so I will never truly have those years back. It's just a memory of them which is difficult to take in sometimes.
There is a part of me that thinks this was crazy and irrational behaviour. I find myself thinking back on my life in the past only to discover that I've left every aspect behind without any hesitation. Every past relationship and many friendships, I have just taken off and figured the other individuals involved could use a little neglect seeing as I had endured a great deal up to that point. I guess, despite the loss of memory, rages and pits of depression which I'd gone through back then, I turned out okay. I might have a skewed way of laying it all out and I find myself restless with people more than I'd like to admit, but I have survived it and many people that care so much for junk like I did, don't survive. Twenty escasty tablets could have killed me and there were nights when they ought to have. I certainly don't know the reason that I breathe tonight, but for once, I can safely say that I'm okay with it. I'm a pretty damn thankful lunatic.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Medicine
It's a pity, to me, that before people learn to think philosophically, the world becomes habit. It makes me wonder if people might somehow lose the abilitiy to wonder about the world - the great mystery.
I have always desired an inquiring mind, this paired with an enigmatic world. I don't think I have ever gotten used to the world. Is it habitual? Yes; more or less. I wake up and fall asleep. I attempt to have meals throughout my consciousness. I meet people, maintain employment and have interests. In this sense, I am living. However, I refues to join the apathetic and indifferent. In this sense, I am being.
I have been thinking a great deal about medicine and health lately. Perhaps it is that my dear friend is visually dying in front of me. Perhaps it is some innate reason, already inside of me; my loneliness, maybe. What baffles me most is that there is no satisfactory explanation for it - no assurance that a person who thinks clearly will be able to live contently under the influences of some perscribed stability.
Medicine is perhaps the art respected by all men in all times. When socratic irony fails, it is drugs that work. I don't think of my flaws as mental or physical imbalances, but rather a belief that nature has gone off-course. Health, likewise, requires more than a sound body and a sound mind. It takes moderation of all things, harmony and a healthy lifestyle.
I also consider 'right' and 'wrong' and how these play a role in medicine. I have a pretty good understanding of them by society's definition. If a man lies, cheats, and steals is it right? No, not by society's standards. Is the man happy? I don't know, yet I suppose that he is and therefore pass no judgement. This is much like my inability to speak up in relationships about the parts that may cause my restlessness and insecurities. It may not be healthy, but I think it's habit. People accept the love they think that they deserve.
I suppose I used thought to participate in life. I wonder too much, maybe, about one small detail in great depth until I feel like I comfortably understand it. This letting the quite that results from thought, put things where they're supposed to be. This saves me a great deal of talking aloud with other people. I figure that the world is much too old for us to talk about with our new words anyway. It sets me up for disappointment, so I just assume pretend that my lips are chapped to the point where talking hurts - remaining mute.
This is, perhaps, the same reasoning that differentiates those drugs and medication from god and spirituality. With religion and theory, people observe everything in unison and harmony; with drugs and medication, they become a part of it.
One of my girlfriends told me the other day that I'm "maniacal". I grinned, shrugged and suppose that places me in the lightly sinister category with all other subterraneans with their maniacal overtones, and I don't feel so bad.
I have always desired an inquiring mind, this paired with an enigmatic world. I don't think I have ever gotten used to the world. Is it habitual? Yes; more or less. I wake up and fall asleep. I attempt to have meals throughout my consciousness. I meet people, maintain employment and have interests. In this sense, I am living. However, I refues to join the apathetic and indifferent. In this sense, I am being.
I have been thinking a great deal about medicine and health lately. Perhaps it is that my dear friend is visually dying in front of me. Perhaps it is some innate reason, already inside of me; my loneliness, maybe. What baffles me most is that there is no satisfactory explanation for it - no assurance that a person who thinks clearly will be able to live contently under the influences of some perscribed stability.
Medicine is perhaps the art respected by all men in all times. When socratic irony fails, it is drugs that work. I don't think of my flaws as mental or physical imbalances, but rather a belief that nature has gone off-course. Health, likewise, requires more than a sound body and a sound mind. It takes moderation of all things, harmony and a healthy lifestyle.
I also consider 'right' and 'wrong' and how these play a role in medicine. I have a pretty good understanding of them by society's definition. If a man lies, cheats, and steals is it right? No, not by society's standards. Is the man happy? I don't know, yet I suppose that he is and therefore pass no judgement. This is much like my inability to speak up in relationships about the parts that may cause my restlessness and insecurities. It may not be healthy, but I think it's habit. People accept the love they think that they deserve.
I suppose I used thought to participate in life. I wonder too much, maybe, about one small detail in great depth until I feel like I comfortably understand it. This letting the quite that results from thought, put things where they're supposed to be. This saves me a great deal of talking aloud with other people. I figure that the world is much too old for us to talk about with our new words anyway. It sets me up for disappointment, so I just assume pretend that my lips are chapped to the point where talking hurts - remaining mute.
This is, perhaps, the same reasoning that differentiates those drugs and medication from god and spirituality. With religion and theory, people observe everything in unison and harmony; with drugs and medication, they become a part of it.
One of my girlfriends told me the other day that I'm "maniacal". I grinned, shrugged and suppose that places me in the lightly sinister category with all other subterraneans with their maniacal overtones, and I don't feel so bad.
Monday, November 23, 2009
A plague with a dangerous tongue
I think I would rather hear someone has died than the diagnosis that they are bound to. It's like slapping a big warning on someone's body that warns they're a disappearing act. I'd rather she just dies and be gone instead of watching all the health and happiness flea from her body and soul. It's not glorifying and even the strongest person cannot defeat this deadly plague that is the human condition.
My good friend invided a group of girls over for our usual wine themed "Ladies Night". It was the regular type of get-together that we have everytime; sharing laughs and stories. Only last night was interrupted by a heavy undertone. All night we could see there was discomfort in her body language and physical pain at certain times. Almost the ache of a heavy soul. She shared with us last night that she was diagnosed with esophageal cancer about three months ago and by her check up with her doctor earlier yesterday, it is evident that the illness has begun to spread. Like wildfire, this is a grotesque killer, only now it is personal and has pried its way into the very body of one of my greatest friends.
This friend, is a gorgeous and generous person in both body, intllect and passion. There is not one person more qualifying for me to carry on in the impression of. I have many friends that I consider to be good people and by Mother Earth, god or whatever superstition it is that we name our religion, I am blessed to have encountered. She is beyond a blessing in my life. It is a simple task for a friend to offer a ride or come by occasionally at her expense to console a friend druing a crisis; however, it is a completely more emotional connection to take in someone (as she has done with me and vice versa) and say virtually, that "Hey, I am not going to go away. I am going to be here when it's invonvenient for you - invonvenient for me too" I think in most ways she is my rock - that person that I can lean on no matter where I am or what the problem. I used to figure that she would be a girlfriend at my wedding day, proposing a toast. I figured she would be around forever, to help me shop for children's clothes and pick out a good school if ever that day came as she'd already gone through it with her children. Unfortunately, cancer is day after day replacing my wonderful friend and likewise, taking over my own body and mind, replacing it with sadness.
The weight of her physical pain is above me. The weight of that choked up feeling you get when you need to tell someone face to face something but can't - that she is going to have to deliver this statement not only to myself and our mutual friends, but to her children, her family, her lover. I cannot even imagine telling someone that you are going to die and there is nothing anyone can do. I have seen this disease take over the lives of friends and family memebers before, people who's lives were throuwn into mine by biology, work, or educational decisions. She is someone I searched for. I made it a point of getting to know her and love her as a friend and mentor and now she is going to die.
Instead of focusing on all of this and addressing the physical and finacial struggles that lie ahead of her, she just mobilized everything she has - her spirituality, emotions, intellect and the remnants of her physical strength. She said to me in an effort to keep my tears back once everyone else had left, "Mel, the world is sickened; it isn't just me. There is pollution of pollution threatened with AIDS, racfisms, homelessness, all kinds of pain and illnesss. Cancer is just one point. One art in my body and it's just an art that is bigger than my body can handle."
I cried the whole way home and took miles of backroads just for something to do - someplace to go. I couldn't figure out who to talk to because I can't make this any better. I suppose that's why this is here, lying in the depths of cyberspace, with no direction. I, too, lacking direction.
My good friend invided a group of girls over for our usual wine themed "Ladies Night". It was the regular type of get-together that we have everytime; sharing laughs and stories. Only last night was interrupted by a heavy undertone. All night we could see there was discomfort in her body language and physical pain at certain times. Almost the ache of a heavy soul. She shared with us last night that she was diagnosed with esophageal cancer about three months ago and by her check up with her doctor earlier yesterday, it is evident that the illness has begun to spread. Like wildfire, this is a grotesque killer, only now it is personal and has pried its way into the very body of one of my greatest friends.
This friend, is a gorgeous and generous person in both body, intllect and passion. There is not one person more qualifying for me to carry on in the impression of. I have many friends that I consider to be good people and by Mother Earth, god or whatever superstition it is that we name our religion, I am blessed to have encountered. She is beyond a blessing in my life. It is a simple task for a friend to offer a ride or come by occasionally at her expense to console a friend druing a crisis; however, it is a completely more emotional connection to take in someone (as she has done with me and vice versa) and say virtually, that "Hey, I am not going to go away. I am going to be here when it's invonvenient for you - invonvenient for me too" I think in most ways she is my rock - that person that I can lean on no matter where I am or what the problem. I used to figure that she would be a girlfriend at my wedding day, proposing a toast. I figured she would be around forever, to help me shop for children's clothes and pick out a good school if ever that day came as she'd already gone through it with her children. Unfortunately, cancer is day after day replacing my wonderful friend and likewise, taking over my own body and mind, replacing it with sadness.
The weight of her physical pain is above me. The weight of that choked up feeling you get when you need to tell someone face to face something but can't - that she is going to have to deliver this statement not only to myself and our mutual friends, but to her children, her family, her lover. I cannot even imagine telling someone that you are going to die and there is nothing anyone can do. I have seen this disease take over the lives of friends and family memebers before, people who's lives were throuwn into mine by biology, work, or educational decisions. She is someone I searched for. I made it a point of getting to know her and love her as a friend and mentor and now she is going to die.
Instead of focusing on all of this and addressing the physical and finacial struggles that lie ahead of her, she just mobilized everything she has - her spirituality, emotions, intellect and the remnants of her physical strength. She said to me in an effort to keep my tears back once everyone else had left, "Mel, the world is sickened; it isn't just me. There is pollution of pollution threatened with AIDS, racfisms, homelessness, all kinds of pain and illnesss. Cancer is just one point. One art in my body and it's just an art that is bigger than my body can handle."
I cried the whole way home and took miles of backroads just for something to do - someplace to go. I couldn't figure out who to talk to because I can't make this any better. I suppose that's why this is here, lying in the depths of cyberspace, with no direction. I, too, lacking direction.
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