mmmmmmmmmmmaximmmmmmmmmmmmm

men's minds are such a mystery.
bathroom reading and television for me tonight. can't really understand what is attractive about the barbies in the mag, but of course women never do know what men (are) like, do they?

now, jon stewart... mmm. it's good to laugh at stupid shit once in a while too, the low brow deserves a swing, or two.
i miss the mind-numbing properties of television, and i am constantly assaulted by my own inability to write anything of intrinsic value. went to buy a red pen today, ended up staring at the new fiction section for far two many minutes (on a tight budget today) flipped through a couple of anthologies of short fiction and was reminded that i should really not kid myself. then i lay in the grass, overlooking the lagoon, watching egrets take flight.

a beautiful black man smiled at me, twice, and actually, felt the need to speak to me on his way in and on his way out. curious. why are some people so self-assured, or is it just their intrinsic goodness spilling out. not me. i never want to bother people... and if i do, my heart starts pounding wildly.
i tasted freedom on my tongue. for a moment. i let it twist itself around my tongue as if it were another, i let it roll off. i gave it up again. i always do.

why is it that we let ourselves believe in things that have no meaning and shrug off the things that matter most? why does the promise of time not comfort the way that it should? life is long. my mantra. life is long, life is long, life is long. and waiting, holding one's breath... the pressure building and begging for the clemency of a hand, two fingers, held just so, held then to your mouth, your lips, a quieting, a secret.
biting gently, teeth on lips as the pain washes in and out with the tides, the moon's sway dangerously curving.
and men? with guns and pleather-suited mistresses, kittens in black and chains, bending to be spanked, to be scolded... how utterly unimaginative. and yet. how powerfully puerile.

at least once a day i tell myself to not write anymore. there is nothing left to say. and then i can't stop myself, because the silence is deafening, and the journey inward is too painful to take on alone. that is it. too much. and i wish that the gaping hole didn't have a name, or a date or an exact location. it was easier before, to bear the weight. it was easier the unknowing the face of my enemy... the unseeing of the mirror image reflected back. i am so angry. and wrecked. mangled as if the eroticism in the crash could make up for what has been lost. irrevocably. unflaggingly. swirling in the spiral that it must, as the flush, begins its flush. an expulsion. a dissappearance. i am angry. i said this already. at myself. for not understanding more. or for just being so little, so meaningless. so infinitely replaceable.

i should go. back into nothingness. but i can't, the seams only open one way, like a birthing vagina, there is no going back in.