ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"If I listen to all those words they tried to sell me, well I wouldn't be here\" - The Rollins Band I don't really know what to say, I'm just so happy that I might actually get to update. Things have been so disturbingly dull, lately. I've been working and rehearsing for many different scenes and plays. I'm a successful advertising executive (who's a big hit with the ladies), a hitman, a man on the run, a concerned boyfriend, a writer's agent, a jealous husband, a perverted gynecologist, and a confused anti-hero. All in the span of about a month. Phew! I'm beat. Work has been peculiar lately. I feel out-of-place, as if I'm the butt of some joke that everyone is laughing at. I don't know why this is, but it is affecting my performance. I walk around in a daze and avoid doing actual work. I spend most of my shift actively shying away from anything resembling "work". This is not the actions of a guy who thinks he's supposed to get a promotion sometime between now and the return of God and His angels. Perhaps the root of my funk lies in that previous statement. I am tired all the time. I can't ever seem to get enough sleep. Even when I get a decent amount, I still feel as though I'd hardly slept at all. I am always hungry. I am drinking more. I am very, very lonely. The world is fucking beautiful to me and I hate it. Everyone I see I want to tear apart and make broken and ugly like me. I want to break all of you so you'll know how I feel; identify with me; sympathize with me; empathize with me; fucking love me, goddammit. My great reflection on my trip back to Texas: nothing. I was sitting on the plane, alternating my headphones between listening to onelinedrawing and catching lines from the in-flight movie, Lost in Translation, and I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I knew that I didn't want to get back to my big, lonely life in San Diego. I even rationalized that I would miss my family and friends after parting from them yet again. But I didn't feel it. I only thought it. I worked it out in my head as a justifiable conclusion. As if I were writing a story. "This should be where the narrarator cries and talks about his loved ones." I thought of it all with the detatched manner of a surgeon, slicing through tissue that isn't mine. All I felt was hate. For myself. What is wrong with me? I haven't always been like this, have I? Why can't I recognize reality and emotion and the role that others play in my life? I fall in love everyday with women that pass on the street, shop for books, scents that linger in the air, songs that invade my consciousness. I am always in love with something and it hurts, all over. But none of it is real. It feels real; the hurt is real; but only because my mind makes it so. My belief in these lofty fascinations with the intangible makes my feelings real but I can't translate that into reality. What is actually here, what should actually mean something to me, gets none of me. I am too busy falling in love to ever love anything or anyone. Everyone's life, no matter how desolate or tortured, seems to me more romantic than my own. The way she holds her cigarette, the way he rests three fingers lazily on the steering wheel as he zooms along at dangerous speeds, the way your poster actually accent your wall and make your room look like more fun to be in than mine, the way he smiles, the way she laughs, your kisses and embraces, his limp, her mismanaged hair, his bohemean life-style, her regrets, his tears, your sadness. Everything that everyone does seems more real to me than anything I could ever do or have ever done. You all seem so pretty to me. I am envious of all of you, because your pretty lives will always be better than my petty one. This is what I think when the lights dim and the butterflies stop fluttering by. This is what I feel when my metabolism slows down and my lids get heavy. This is what I think when a bright ball of fire rises from the Eastern horizon and washes out the stars. This is what I think and feel all of the time. I am so goddamn, fucking, stinking lonely, useless, damaged, and tired all of the fucking time and I'm fucking sick of it. In other news, my roommate raised my fucking rent for no fucking apparent reason. I am shaking with anger now. I think I'll go. 10:40 p.m. - 2004-06-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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