2001-12-01 - 11:31 p.m.: hot chocolate (without milk)

I was exhausted all day today... fell asleep to candlelight and Jeff Buckley. There's something so beautiful about his voice... like desire tinged with pain. And wind. Lots of wind. Or maybe that was my window. (My room is on the second floor, looking west over the roof and a lake... wind hits it hard, rattling and whistling in even mild breezes). There's something nice, too, about being "exhausted," instead of just "tired." When even your lips and veins ache.... and your neck feels stem-like, on the verge of collapsing under the ponderous weight of your head. Not nice like "ooh I want to feel that way all the time..." but nice like "I am more alive than I've ever been. My whole body is communicating with me right now... every nerve, every fiber. I am my physiology."

I've only felt that way once (no twice) before.... but I was "under the influence". I have to admit... that felt SOO much nicer... my nerves and fibers were a little happier. The world seemed... absolutely brilliant. The sun felt warm EVERYWHERE, not just on my skin. The trees seemed glad... the river seemed nourishing, like a big bloodstream feeding some giant, throbbing body. I don't know, though, how quickly I'd do it again. During, it was so nice. But afterward I felt a little freaked out, very cold... I didn't trust anyone, least of all myself. The older stranger who told me outright lies about monuments and bought us cherries *seemed* like an especially kind and cordial "fatherly" sort, until it started getting dark out and I didn't know where I was. What kinds of situations would I lead myself into if things *seemed* okay? Or do things work out when you feel good? Is the world like a pit of hot coals... you only get burned if you think about it? Anyway... once everything wore off I did think about it, and was scared out of my mind. I can recall that feeling more quickly, and I'm worried that it might be the more lasting of the two.

I think I could get into this diary after all. It's not as nice as a paper journal... I can't scribble in the margins or hide it under my mattress.... but it's so much easier. I can write more and say more without my fingers cramping up. I can do it without feeling the need to run and get my magic markers. I can do it without feeling like I need to tear out pages that I don't agree with, anymore. It won't replace... just complement.

The complicated part is that it's much more difficult to find a reason to shut up. I'm not talking *to* anyone, so I don't have to worry about punishing ears or eyes. I'm not talking *about* anything, so I don't have to worry about getting off track or rambling. There's no page limit and no deadline, no red flashing lights or electric shocks. I may just keep typing all night.

I wish I had a longer, more vivid memory, and more guts. There are so many things I'm afraid to write -- even in a diary -- because of how I know they'll make me feel. There are lines that I delete because of how they sound. Is that cowardly, or what? "Fingers, cooperate in helping me repress everything I'm ashamed or afraid of. Eyes, look away. Shoulders, relax. Stomach, shut the hell up. Neck, godammit, shape up!"

I'm the biggest tyrant in my life. And the biggest wuss.

inward...outward