an act of preservation

I saved all your letters. I once thought about throwing them out in a fit of rage, from a hunger for destruction and a desire to forget. I'm glad I didn't yield to that. Years later, looking back at what you wrote me, it's like nothing's changed. We are what we were and you're the same as ever. Of course this isn't true -- memory is fluid. Time distorts what was; and what is, changes from moment to moment. I'm not the same person I was then, and you can't be either. But I don't want to forget who and what we were. I need to hold on to what we had, because it was beautiful. I need to remember what was real. It's an act of preservation -- I have to protect the memory of what we shared so I can believe I can some day have that again. By keeping your letters, I chose to remember you as you were, to remember us as we were, instead of as we are -- as friends, instead of strangers. I can't help wondering: how did you choose to remember me?

This afternoon, I had a dream

where a terribly scary alien monster was chasing me. The alien monster was not unlike the "shit demon" in Dogma but looked more like it belonged in "Futurama." I was carrying an alien-shaped cake and trying to run away at the same time, through a videogame-like maze. The Futurama Shit Demon would be borne out of toilet in the top left corner, and I would take off to the opposite end of this strange earth, but every time, I wound up on a high school baseball diamond. The alien monster would swipe some of my cake and then take off on a cloud and fly away -- and then I'd end up back at the beginning of the maze with less cake, the toilet would incept the Futurama Shit Demon, and the whole thing would happen over and over, until I had nearly no cake left. Finally, I figured out how to stay on the field, and tried taking the pathetic remains of the cake to the cafeteria's back door at the school, but when the door opened, it was the Futurama Shit Demon.

Then I woke up and I've been listening to Belle and Sebastian's "Dress Up In You" on repeat since then. I don't know what that means, other than it'll probably make for another really depressing dream later on.

"You got lucky, you ain't talking to me now...Get on the airplane, you give me stomach pain...We had a deal then, we nearly signed it in our blood. I thought that you would keep your word. I'm disappointed...I always loved you, you always had a lot of style. I'd hate to see you on the pile of 'nearly made its'..."

tired.

Whenever someone asks me how I am, and I say, "I'm tired," I almost never mean that I'm just sleepy. I mean that I'm emotionally exhausted. I mean that I'm confused, depressed, and pissed the fuck off. I mean that I'm overwhelmed and scared, and I'm over it. But who wants to hear that?

So I'm just tired.

I've been coasting

maybe I want to fail so people will stop expecting so much from me. or so I will stop expecting so much from me.

maybe I don't want anyone to love me too much so I won't some day, inevitably, let them down. maybe I don't love me enough so I won't let me down.

(22 Nov 2010)

There is a narrow berth of floor space between my bed and my dresser that fits my body perfectly. My comforter drapes off my bed and over most of my body, but still my head can peek out and see the glitter stuck on the 1970s popcorn ceiling dimly sparkling in the warm glow of the red shaded 40 watt in the opposite corner. When my bed feels both too big and too small, I like to lie here, hiding from nothing. Or, I guess, hiding from everything -- including myself.

but it doesn't

Joan: [pause] I loved her.

Adam: I know. And I don't know why that doesn't matter.

under a crushed velvet gaze i turn to clay ready to bend at will and fit a mold. i am an elastic rubber band man pliant and quick to stretch at the slightest tug. i am butter spread too thin melting in a hot bagel's craters. i am weak. i must be strong and resist the urge to turn to mush but be willing to adapt and roll with the punches. the punches hurt but it's okay. i get by.