This Place
<< 12:05 a.m. - Friday, Oct. 07, 2005 >>
I guess sometimes. It�s as if all the clear boudaries and edges were like wet paint or a fragile charcoal drawing, one untried hand and the distinctions are gone; the image destroyed. I guess sometimes that�s how my life feels. Can I take eraser to this marred image? Or can I just stop remembering the sheer clarity the image once had?

I said before I�d stop doing this. But how can I when I still live in this house? How can I when I�m constantly bombarded by old memories? I waited for the bus downtown, and all around men were putting up white lights on the trees. I guess this means its winter. And suddenly all I see is a house where four people once lived, bundled against the cold and watching steam and smoke rise into the air. All laying on one bed and just staring at the ceiling in a comfortable silence. And then rewind farther and there�s me and you so drunk. So at the beginning of things. There�s this laughter in this house I haven�t heard in a long time. I just wish I could fucking get past it.

You came here and we both felt the air get eerie with a mass of memories. Why the fuck can�t we be like we were? Why can�t you and I trust each other, not all this fear that I�ve grown accostomed to. It�s strange to think that I don�t miss any particualr person any longer. There is no single person who could come back and put things right. Not even the summer did anything. So it was the moment. And that was gone long ago. Get over it. Get over it. Can�t? Don�t want to?