Drifty.
<< 7:48 p.m. - Wednesday, Mar. 10, 2004 >>
There is shit all over my desk. I�ve got the smell of old banana peel, refried beans, and a plastic bag of oozing oil paints wafting up my nose. This isn�t what I like. I felt free today. I felt like laughing at all my petty worries I go cycling through everyday. And I get home and close the door and enter my room trap. Whether or not the blinds are open, I can�t see outside, the light�s reflected my own warbled image into the glass. I�m stuck in a bad mood I thought I shooed away only minutes before. They say the state of one�s living quarters resembles the state of their mind, so what the fuck is happening here?

I feel like I can�t write anything true anymore. Everything I say is already packaged into a clich� box. It�s all departmental and put away. And nothing is actually coming out as I continue to urge words and language to the surface.

Something in me is coming back and I�m hating it all the while. This unerupted dislike for characteristics in people, that festers in me and leaves me annoyed at myself and all the more colder and disconnected. I want to be honest with you. Can you take it? So often I feel like the curtain cover to the trash pile of my shortcomings is unveiled before me, and I�m tired of it.

This is a letter writing time, I think. This is everything I can�t ever bring myself to admit in person. About the person I think you are, and the person I think I am. I don�t want to be the bitch. I don�t even want to begin a sentence with, �I know you don�t want to hear this, but�� I just want to settle myself by stirring up questions without answers and placing them to others. And isn�t that messed up?

Lying out on Mt. Tabor in the setting sun is � well it�s just that. A couple or so other creatures that resembled me settled themselves on the hill in clusters and bathed in photons. Hah. And I�m always waiting for another epiphany.

If I was you and I read what you as me, wrote, I would think about how you, Kelsi, always go through these cycles. And how everything you write here and promise yourself will fade until you forget it and rediscover it almost a half-month later. You are a whole big mother fucking cycle, Kelsi.

I don�t want to talk about the past month. I don�t want to remember where I came from. There are beautiful times, but so much chaotic idiocy I hate analyzing. I�m gonna pretend as if I have never been hurt. I�m gonna deny. If I say it doesn�t than it won�t, right?

You can�t save her. You can�t analyze this out of the chaos she is in. Why do we have to save everyone? Why do I feel like I should when I know change comes within?