it's 9:56 pm, on January 07, 2005 - scattered and blown.

~

Flood gates, indeed. It's funny, it's like an inverse function of something - the more I speak, the more I desperately feel the need to speak, the less people are here.

No one has updated in over a week. Tag, bitches. Tag. Tag. my hand is outreached, trying to tap someone on the shoulder. It's like in grade school; I always hated tag because I was afraid I'd never catch anyone and I'd just be it forever.

there's a bit in Jeremiah, after Markus is consistently compared to Noah, where he calls himself a goat, rather than anyone important, responsible for this world change. He's not the mover, not the shaker, he's just cattle. I don't know why, but that moment is constantly in my head.

I feel scattered and alone. It's like, on the one hand, I need, I need. I miss desperately, I think about the dream most of the day. And yet the more I think about it, nay, the more I talk about it, the farther away it gets. I say it, and it escapes from inside me. Once I say it, it ceases to have any meaning, it ceases to be.

How can two such things be true? How can, on the one hand, the only thing I want in the world right now is to be back at the griffin on a good night - and yet, at the same time, as I say it, realize and feel it in my bones that that's never going to happen, not the way I want? I don't mourn that fact. once I say it, there it is. I articulate something, and it ceases to make me *feel*.

not that I don't still wish I was at the Griffin. not that I don't still play "who's whose roommate!". not that I don't still want. it's just, in the act of saying - and sometimes after - a thing has less effect.

Experience the object as a *thing*, and it ceases to have power. it becomes the thing, rather than something that influences you. I don't think of myself as a lion.

Like I said, scattered. No one's updating, no one's around, I get an email and it only leaves me wanting more emails. I hear from Ashlan, sitting in Bryant's apartment, and I want to know what he's doing, what Johnny's doing. I want to read their words, I want to experience them, so that maybe this ache goes away.

um. scattered. yeah. oh, and I didn't tell you this story yet: coming home from work after the day from hell (drunk, pass out for two hours, get up, fly home hungover, work five hours, take train home), I was accosted walking home from the train station by a psycho dog. Literally. It was like, wow. something didn't want me to come home.

ps; it's still snowing. wtf? I might as well live back east.

~

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what would sith be nostalgic about anyway - November 24, 2015
moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
- - July 19, 2015
- - July 01, 2015
bruise - June 29, 2015

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