wonderful, isn't it

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G: I was thinking about how it hasn't rained yet and how I'm a little scared of it raining. I remember you smelled a lot like rain.
C: When I'm off lockdown, idk when that will be, would you like to hang out or get something to eat one day?




often, i feel uncontrolled; hunger is satisfying because in my mastery over it, i'm assured a sense of satisfaction that is derived from unadulterated denial. i feel composed. i feel focused. i feel like i'm making progress. i feel like i am literally answering to myself and refuting the forces that push me toward chaotic gluttony. i feel sharper and more confident.
maybe that's what i crave-- the confidence. the strength of will that i can hold and lick and devour and possess with incandescent greed. it's mine, and i won't give it to you. it sounds like a sick concept, even to me. but we're all sick. we're all twisted in some form or another. we all crave certain things for entirely impure reasons. we all lie and cheat and whore ourselves. we all relish being degraded in some way or another. we're all voyeurs and exhibitionists, tantalized by the idea of bondage and submission. we all crave power. we all sin whenever we convince ourselves that god can't be watching. we all cry when we realize again that he's always watching. we all take pleasure in pain--our own or that of others. we all curse our deities. we all masturbate. we all enjoy temptation in this glistening, sinful way.

and if you call me a cynic for thinking that way, i'm just going to ask that you prove me wrong.


i'm pretty sure i ate less than 500 calories today. which is good, i suppose. mrs. park saw me and told me that i look like i've lost some weight. which is also good. but i will not stop until my BMI is at least 4 points lower. i refuse to stay so fat. i refuse. i refuse.

but i still feel like i'm getting f a t t e r.






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the black force in blood that wakes, wakes, wakes

these days i have been forced to judge myself as others would judge me, to worry about how i appear to others. i really hate that. more than anything, i think it degrades my sense of knowing who i am, makes me more detached from myself. i really hate it.


i got back from deadline night. it was stressful, just because feature theme was rather late and a&e needed a lot of touching up. i sat in front of a laptop, working on photoshop for around 45 minutes or so before getting a text from R. i guess he was looking for booze and fun people, but before he found them he came and talked with me for a bit. we sat on the stairs and smoked, then sat on the bleachers and kissed. i told him to stay safe when he left.


the other day, i saw someone that i wasn't prepared to see. you know how there are certain people in your life that you just have to brace yourself for--certain individuals who, because your history with them is so... dense, you have to grit your teeth and tell yourself a few things before you can actually physically face them?
i almost passed him without noticing. but then i saw his nose. i know that nose anywhere. and i bounced down the stairs as softly as i could and peeked. he saw me and i blinked, then left. he was on the phone. as i was walking back up, i heard his footsteps behind me and started to climb the stairs faster, and when i got to the top, i turned around, and there he was, coming back up. he has a green t-shirt on. his hair looked darker than i remembered. it had grown out again. he waved. i gave as much of a smile as i could. someone called him from the gate and he said "that's my cousin"
i nodded and left, not really turning to see if he had gone.
over a year of not speaking to each other, and then, "that's my cousin"
the encounter disoriented me for the rest of the day. you know how you get that out-of-body feeling--you feel as if you are an illusion, a meaningless blob of barely functioning blubber. weak bones. it was disheartening, but also a relief that i wasn't drastically affected. i wasn't crying or shaking or thinking of old memories. that was the best part: seeing him but being able to keep myself from actually thinking about him.


right now its 215am. i'm sketching, writing a bit. then i'll sleep a few hours and wake up in time to finish some work before rehearsal tomorrow.
my exhaustion is reaching an unreasonable extent.

for you, i am unhurt. but for me, i'm frightened.

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there are certain beauties that shine from inside my eye, outward toward the world, so that i never know whether the source is within me, or if its merely a reflection of external wonderment. i can feel them glow when my thoughts get hazy, and i'm lifted into a calmer state of mind, where i can think of old hurts and new patches of rawness without the sadder strains of emotion.
my foot is on a ledge of a bureau on which faded pictures are scattered, half burned. a candle sinks too fast and the wood is cold.











before nov 1 i must finish:
studying for physics, mathIIc, lit subject tests
stanford supplement/common/rec letters/secondary school report and send everything

that's in less than two weeks. i feel like a fish in a boiling metal pot.

warcut

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these days i have been fighting migraines, wearing sparkly skirts and trying not to cry and trying not to kiss all these boys that i half love, half want to be with, but could never give myself to.

these days i want to talk to c--- again, even though that would be a very delicate thing. a perhaps dangerous thing. i just need to "set things right" and be able to not wonder.





i don't believe in the sun.
sometimes i believe in me.
i believe in the moon
the tide
and the anger
you paint me with.
but i don't believe in
memories or
the way you move your mouth.
i don't believe in you.
i don't believe in you.










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pass the parcel

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the crack of light underneath your eye is disheartening. i've never seen it there before, and i guess i expected more from you.




these days i feel perpetually tired, perhaps because of the exhaustion of applications and whatnot, or perhaps because journalism is so draining, or perhaps because i'm just extremely sick of having all this negative energy flood into me when i am not in a position to relieve it.

these days i've been wishing that i still did coke.

these days i haven't been finishing everything that i need to finish. i haven't been losing weight either. i haven't been seeing friends or writing in my journal, i haven't been sketching and i haven't been singing. i apologize for the rather gloomy mood, but i feel rather grey these days.




today my mother needed to get some jeans, so i went shopping with her and ended up buying:
leopard print shorts (21)
black gladiator heels (21)
long-sleeved cardigan (gap)
black/silver sequined skirt (express)
multicolored print/sequin skirt (express)

then came home and cut a pair of my mother's extremely old jeans to fashion a pair of shorts before going to meet eric for physics. he bought me milk tea and i stole a no smoking sign from near the stairwell




i believe this is from the recent sonia rykiel show...


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it's getting colder. the bones begin to cool and remind you of certain, rainier memories.

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i spent today watching the starter wife and thus feeling like a lazy, divorced woman with trust issues. it was a combination of watching debra messing make feeble attempts to take charge of her own life and being incredibly frustrated with my lack of cigarettes. i left my pack in genesis' car.

*head desk*




but, now, i have finished english homework, i don't feel like finishing the rest of my homework, and i think i'll a) finish more of the common app b) print out the TE forms and c) study for physics.

then maybe i'll clean my room













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LOVVVER FOREVVVER

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today i felt no need for it, but most of the time i wish that escape could be a definite provision.

today, the machine behind my eyes is eating me.

sometimes when i paint things, i want to give them to people. but sometimes the paintings look scary, and i don't know how to stop them from looking that way.

sometimes writing is overwhelming. with art, it's different--when i'm making a sculpture or drawing, i feel more in control because the distance is shorter: the distance between your brain-hand-sketchbook or brain-hand-sculpture is shorter, more manageable, than the distance between the brain-journal. i feel less autonomous. i feel like people will know things. the line between open and vulnerable is much thinner with writing.
sometimes that's a good thing. but i think, for me, most of the time it's not.

sometimes we need to be loved more than once in order to understand that when the music dies down, and the night goes to rest, all that matters is that soft, lingering kiss.



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