ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- & The Order of the Phoenix Ahhh! It doesn't get any better than this: I'm drinking White Merlot and eating donuts and watching the still figure of Katie asleep on her bed. I've just finished e-mailing applications to some dozen or so jobs and now I'm hitting the wine in an attempt to help me sleep. I need it tonight, you see... I had the day off work so I sat on my ass and did nothing. I baked biscuits, five, and ate them as my only meal for the day. That's why these donuts, probably a week old at least, look so appealing. Oh goodness, they're not though. Ixnay the eating donuts; they're going the way of the snotty tissues. Anyway, I ate the biscuits and watched some episodes of "The Family Guy" and then browsed through the Classifieds. With all that done, I thought I'd clean up a bit. The first askew item that I grabbed was my box of photographs from underneath the coffee table. I opened it and there they all were: Becki, Tenille, Sara, Colleen, Mary, Tori, Vennessa, Ananda, Adrienne, Odessa, Melissa (all three of them), Jennifer, and countless others. Staring back at me, trapped in time, haunting me and taunting me and begging for answers to the question that comes out the same from each pair of eyes: "Why did you leave us?" Each photograph affected me differently, but each had its effect. I flipped frantically; faces and smiles and memories, fluttering by, whirling, swirling, nauseating. Then I stopped. Cory's graduation photo, which used to be in a frame but it was broken during the move. I picked it out and brought it into the light. I studied his eyes, his cheeks, his smile, his hair. And magically, through a force we sometimes call "nostalgia" but I know as "delirium", the picture changed in front of my eyes. Cory, seventeen at the time, aged in front of me. It was subtle, the same way that my own aging has been subtle. I look pretty much the same now as I did when I was sixteen, with a few small differences, despite the fact that it's nine years later. And here, in sight of my depression, Cory aged nine years. His cheekbones became more severe, his eyes darker, his hair, as well. His smile conjured slight lines on its sides. He looked then like he would look now: 26 years old and ready for the world. He didn't look bad; handsome, in fact. He looked reserved; refined; a man to be revered. In my dreams, he seems to be in the same boat I am in. "Transference", the Psychs call it. I've placed the existence that I'm dissatisfied with on him because I'm still angry at him for taking himself from us and therefore believe that he is not deserving of anything better. In my dreams, he has risen from the dead, a feat not to be scoffed at, and resumed his daily activities. Getting a job and trying to navigate the sharks-can't-sleep dating world. And the face that I saw was a face preoccupied with those thoughts. It wasn't scary. It wasn't disturbing. It was just there. I set it down, closed the box, and called Katie. She offered use of her computer for my job-hunting activities and here I am, slowly getting drunk from White Merlot that she'll never drink. In a month or so, she'll be gone, and this apartment might be mine. For now, however, I need to find a day-job and navigate the sharks-can't-sleep singles scene. I envy you, sometimes, Cory. Other times, I fucking hate you. I don't see myself as stronger or better than you; just here. Just breathing. Just suffering , as is our course in life. And that's more than I can say for you. 3:10 a.m. - 2003-09-18 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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