Reservoir
<< 10:51 p.m. - Wednesday, Dec. 29, 2004 >>
The good metaphors won�t come. I don�t want to continue having all my sentences start with �I.� I don�t want the world to be a reference to me. At this point there doesn�t seem to be any way not sound like lame complaining. I�m far too critical of myself. Hello, I am self-loathing. I hate my body and it�s bulkiness of being. My words, which speak falsely and seek too much approval. Again, I stagnate. Again, I repeat myself. I walk over the same path. Except now, I just drive it.

It�s not right. Not what I was meant for? Stupid birth control hormones make me crazy. Or maybe its� what is that word? For when you believe something so much you create it yourself? I can�t honestly remember now.

Sometimes get the feeling that I�ve said too much. Just want escape. Hikes, swimming, talks around campfires when you�re exhausted. Want to feel like I deserve it. Want to experience rather than relive. Revel in silent friendship.

Aye. I wanted this to be more positive. Definite answers when I can�t find them; probably don�t exist. Life isn�t like cartoons, even in a visual sense; we contain no black lines that tell the viewer where we start and end. It blurs. The answer isn�t the same for everyone, and it definitely has the ability to change several times in each of our lives. I want things to be like they were, seven years of familiar territory, and when we part, nothing can remain as it was. I cannot make myself fit into who I was. It feels false. I feel false. I don�t know where to settle, who to be, and what role to play now. I try only to be what you wish of me. Try being the operative word.

Blaga.