eraser
09/28/2003 08:42 p.m.

i am slowly and passive-aggressively commencing my break-up with reality. this is a modification to what i announced last night to my dear friends. sitting on the roof of keep, drinking wine and talking art, talking poetry, talking creation, smoking cigarettes cause we forgot we'd already smoked cigarettes and we forgot they were bad for us. i told them i was breaking up with humanity. humanity and i are finished. but i'm modifying that to be a breakup with reality. if someone exists in that outside world, then there are possibilities of connections.

but, it's begun. i went to zero of two meetings today - the first, because i couldn't find it. but the second, i just sat here until it passed. i am remaining outside slowly and, as i said, passive-aggressively. there's too much unreality in reality. too much disgust and pain and ruin. i need something to touch me; not like this. i can't live in this world of other people, waiting for other people and needing other people. there has to be something different or my life will slowly collide with futility and i'll have done nothing to stop it.

and, mother of god,...i am waiting. i am waiting and i am waiting and i am waiting.

i shouldn't go to tank to study today, but i told her i would. shouldn't have done that. shouldn't go. but i will. ah, well. in my scarf, in my furry red sweater, in my disgusting emotional habiliments. in my redface of misplaced heat and why? i'm walking towards more mistakes, more mistakes every day.

and yet there's a peace here; i just have to find words for it. it's the peace of...i can wait, that's the peace. i can wait and i will; it's only that it's meanwhile me with myself torturing my brain for the right words to change the world and spin the earth in another direction, to hurtle off into a thousand solar systems and reach the place where time is instantaneous; and what good will that do, anyhow, but to continue sitting in this room with the clacking of a hundred thousand keys, all telling me things i can't understand, things that mean nothing to me but the same lunacy i've been telling myself?

and what do i not say here because someone might be reading it, and what do i say because someone might be reading it? and what's honest and what's not? i can't tell anymore. if ever i could. i just want to reach; i want this line in my chest making it bleed making it scraped bare and hollow to get some life back from where i'm sending all mine. i don't know why i write these words anymore than i know why i write all the billions of words i write in my life. i don't know what i expect anything to mean to anyone, and i don't certainly know if anything will ever mean anything to me in terms of my expectations of reality and my desire to erase it all. if i could take an eraser to my life i wouldn't.