When I'm on Vicodin, My Words Begin to Blur
<< 10:45 p.m. - Monday, Sept. 08, 2003 >>
Does this make any sense? I'm done now, and still I have no idea where this went.

When I was green, as I am now; I�d sit in the back of the bus, where the seats where elevated above everyone. Legs too long and feet sticking out into the doorway and I observe it all. Woman with the white Barber Shop Quartet hat and the man who takes up two seats and talks absently to himself. Let me cure all your ills. I was always pretending to be the aloof wanderer. Don�t you like me better that way? Blue ink drawings and words curled around them in perfect zine fashion. I have a journal. And I never thought I was the type who would keep something that exhibited words so hungry. Light hits the water in fractured bits. I could walk over it and return to you, if I could move fast enough.

If I don�t go anywhere with this, I�m sorry. There is so much something to be said for my feelings of invincibility that remain omnipresent in my youth that its shrinks from my hands and becomes nothing. So we�ll see where this takes you and me. When I let go I want to flow. I want to fly.

Set up the scene in like those artsy movies with shaky camera movements and blurred lines. Because life is a metaphor. I�m riding the bus, again. Didn�t I already say that? Oh well. The world revolves past my giant window; grease spot in the corner from a forehead that was never mine. And its all double images and mercury answers. I got back exactly what I pushed away seconds earlier. She gets up and walks out and I�m struck by her mess of bleach black hair sticking out in angles and, how does she brush it? When she turns I see it. My first sign. Memento Mori. Remember you will die. Jesus, how could I forget? You wrote it in pencil pink on my mirror and maybe tomorrow when I wake up it�ll fade into the sharp silver that reflects my image too accurately. In all my puny and imperfect glory.

If I change too fast, how do I end up knowing who I am? I told them I was ever evolving, but here�s the new problem; I can�t get a hold of the person I am. And it�s ever so comforting to know oneself. Why I am the way I am. Irrational me can�t talk to advisable you. The things I write may mean nothing hours later, and I execute the dead words with a wave of �Ctrl + A� and �Delete�. Slough off the skin that doesn�t become me.

I�m on Vicodin; I can�t ride the bus for at least a week. I can�t even sit. Silly fool that takes on experiences with disastrous curiosity. I stand one-legged on the long side of kindling and fall off as suddenly as I was on. Wood breaks my descent, and something else. Coccyx shattered, and bone fragments float eerily inside me. Struck by my mortality, the fact that I am breakable and fragile. But I won�t let them see me cry. This pain that doesn�t ebb or flow, won�t come and go, but stays like a virus and pulses between painful and excruciating. But I enjoy the rain. The healing moon. Heisha has a kind face.

I had a dream two nights ago that I was to be hung for murder. As I approached the stairs that led up to that proverbial noose, 17. I�m only seventeen. And I start thinking about all that I have ahead of me. All that I may miss out if I had to end it right there. She turns around; glass in her eyes, and runs away.

Don�t tell me about my death. Don�t tell me I�m not prepared. The fuck I�m not. Memento Mori is more about living in the present. I�m not sitting around and watching all this movement and light pass me by. I can�t do that anymore. I�ve spent my sophomore toying with the idea and junior year analyzing it. Circled my black tulip car round and round dark thoughts until I woke up this summer and realized I wasn�t going anywhere. Suspended animation. And my eyes opened yesterday. I think.

How I treasure my name when I don�t type it. I save all the clippings that become me on a pegboard in my room. I hear they say things. �I was here.� �I lived.� Though I might have lied. When you go, you stay alive through memory. I want my name printed in every textbook. My initials carved into the bark of a tree with a heart around them. I can stand death, but I can�t stand infinity. Watch it fall with me. Each rain drop a disproving statement. Water is on my side. Who am I if I am forgotten? What does it mean that my entire existence is just another molecule in the sea of history? Or nothing at all. Worse than death is the vindictive memory.

I HAVE HAD THIS DIARY FOR A YEAR NOW. AMAZING TO ME.