I have been sitting here with d's latest piece. I've been sitting here, riveted to every description while still making sure to go over the little bits of correction I have grown accustomed to making. Lose, not loose, I will write. Or, cap, not beanie I will suggest.
Then comes the call. A dear, a gentleman, a friend, wise beyond the letters of that word. And now, after having received the call and our brief conversation over, I feel that I have no right to write. �Oh you do that too? I thought you only cross out words and make little notes� I know what he means. I understand. I have thought it or i'm thinking it now. I'm acquainted with what i am. I thought you were only fit to go over with your corrections. Its not what he said, only how it became distorted in my mind. I should not be hurting as I am because I know it isn't real, it can't be. It's only me, I do this to myself. because i know where the softest, weakest places are. And so maybe he�s right. Maybe they're all right. After all, i'm no fool. i've heard it before. "Those who can't do, teach." Yes, its true and applies to anyone who attempts.. those who can't act, become critics. or those who can't play, coach. in my case:those who cannot tell a proper story should just listen. or those who can't write, edit. its true for anyone who tries his hand (or hers).. anyone who thinks so much of themselves that they can even approach the greatness in true art, literature..life. Yes, there are those that attempt and then there are those that are chosen without having to attempt. there are those that are naturals, and those that look on. i cannot claim to be anything. i am not chosen. i am no one, turning mediocrity unto everything i touch. i'm only a girl. nothing memorable and no remarkable qualities or talents to speak of. i've always felt it was so. i've always felt the exhaustion of the pretense. the performance of belonging. i've always known it and so it must be true. that is my place. its always been a great strength of mine, to recognize what i am not.
And so..maybe I am, like all the others. persistent in efforts that lead to paths stopped by walls. walls that are not as walls but as signs urging me, even now, to stop.
stop writing. stop immersing myself in language. stop trying to be more than i am, more than i was intended to be. forever seated, unmoving and turning circles on the inside. turning to envy, turning a deeper green, so green as to be olive as to be brown, a sinking piece of earth doomed to go quietly away. a color and a texture to be traveled upon, serving others, being nothing myself.
oh God, why these little earthquakes that shake my nerve and shame my amateur gestures at grace in this world. and i am crushed beyond understanding. my ego, pinned sharply against my chest, is pierced and shuddering. the whole of it tempts the whole of me to cave in with a thousand wounded sorrows spilling from my self.
why are these words.. these bits of aftermath.. these imitations of a living life.. why is this so imporant. i am in agony every time i am reminded of what i am and what i mean.
i could be anyone and it doesn't matter. i possess nothing of consequence and should therefore make an end. resign myself to a life of back-breaking harm.. give up the game, the pretense.
it means nothing and comes to nothing.
17:01 - Sunday, Feb. 13, 2005
Recent entries:
oday.html">the 3 month countdown begins - 05 May 2018
anothrburst.html">another burst - this used to be my playground
newlife.html">begin at the beginning. - 10 April 2008
moody.html">a blanket for a bad mood under the sun. - 25 March 2007
emilludwig.html">...kissing a fool... - 05 December 2006
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