Miracula �ternitatis
<< 9:28 p.m. - Sunday, May. 18, 2003 >>
Stomach is acting strangely. Don�t like this. Attacks of stress that hit inner organs with surprising ache. Drove in the car with Megan; had it. Babysat Sydney; got another. And now, just sitting at my desk it comes again. Instead of butterflies, I�ve consumed sea urchins.

Room is dim. Curtains open and still the colors are muted and quite. I am alone and pretending I have never been here before. My room so much smaller than I imagine. The cracks in the ceiling more numerous than ever. An unfinished paint job on the molding. The books in their shelf, all arranged alphabetically by author. The fact that it�s Sunday and I still haven�t gotten anything done, is disappointing. But� I don�t care. Whatever. It will get done. I�ve proved that to myself. Returning to those months of solitude seems less likely.

And yet��It's like there are chains between us; we're all tied up in the same old patterns.� Emili is right. We all seem to be so caught in the past perceptions. Looking at each other in the same way we did at Environmental Middle School. Did we know each other better then? Or was it just that we didn�t even know ourselves? Now we can only complain forlornly that no one understands us. All the while waiting for someone else to change us, when it�s us who have to fucking grow up and realize we create our reality. We have no one else to blame but ourselves.

Eh�