ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"For the first of May / for the last days of autumn / for the summer in between / for the few weeks when you said I should feel lucky\" - Far In my crotch there sits a demon who makes me think things I'd rather not, and he's growing stronger everyday. But enough about him, let's talk about me. It's my diary, after all, isn't it? I dreamt of Katie the other night. In my dream, I'm sleeping on a bench outside with a comforter over me. The first window on the building to my left opens and there is Katie, in a grey t-shirt and her red hair. She calls out to me: "Eric? What are doing out here? Are you okay? I'm not doing too well. She walks toward me, like an angel crossing a cloud. She reaches out her hand and touches my left shoulder. I immediately begin to cry. She wraps me in her arms. "Why are you out here?" I couldn't sleep. "What's wrong, honey?" I don't know. She strokes my hair and rocks me gently. "I miss you. You know I never wanted to see you like this." I never wanted you to see me like this, either. She takes my face in her hands. "Do you miss me?" A pause like a mighty river tears the air between us. I don't know. And I start to cry some more, and she continues to hold me and sway back and forth with me in her arms. She continues to try and comfort me, and her selfless caring makes me cry even harder. Though the me in the dream couldn't answer, I can; I miss her. The dream left me dazed upon waking. I wandered the streets on the way to rehearsal, seeing her face everywhere. When I wasn't on stage running the sketch I'm in, I was outside on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes, listening to Glassjaw, and crying. I spent the entire day in a funk, and it's still with me. You want a story? How about a guy with self-destructive tendencies so intense that he sabotages every beautiful thing that falls into his hands? Does that sound like a winner to you? We could get Nicholas Cage to play the guy. He's got that pouty face that conveys sorrow so well. June is almost over and my book is still at only twenty-one pages. I've been telling people I'm up to 22, but who am I fooling? The sadness that drips from my pores is ruining everything. I am so... conflicted. What a mess! In August, I will be twenty-six years old. I have done nothing with my life. Nothing. I've thrown away every opportunity that was given to me. I never went to college, I never maintained any healthy relationships, I've neglected myself to the point that I'm an emaciated, sallow husk of man; I'm a failure in every way. But, no; this isn't defeatist satire. This is me spelling it out in harsh black-and-white and saying "It's not too late." I'm going to make something of myself, dammit, no matter what the odds. I'm going to attain some level of success. Do something that I can look back on and say "Yeah, I did that." I don't know what it is, but I'm going to fucking do it! I'm sick of this wallowing in the gutter crap. For now, I'm going to drink and kick myself. For now, it's all that I'm good at. 9:52 p.m. - 2004-06-28 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||