Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Journal #6

April is coming.  I can feel in slipping in under my door, wafting through the window.  The deceptive coolness that I wake up to in the morning luxuriating in, till memory takes hold.  Till my gaze falls upon a simple black plastic container that holds court on a bookshelf.

I am so tired of talking about a dead man.  Of dreaming, missing, being angry at a dead man. He cannot fight back, he cannot soothe me, he cannot do anything but be a pile of ash in a simple black plastic box on a bookshelf.

I am supposed to be thinking of an essay to write soon.  The Self in a Relationship.  So many options to chose from.  Shall I pick the man who left me first, or the most current lost.  Which death that has laid it's own fine spiderweb of scarring over me shall I pull out to examine.  I have a hard time moving past the still healing wound to the scars of the past.  Why ignore the pink, somewhat scabbed, always itching with parts still gaping slash across me?  Nights like this I am glad I keep my nails short and crave heavy nail polish to thicken the edges.  I fear I will give into my old high school urge to rend flesh with nails just to see if I can make the outside match the inside.

Bloody hell that is melodramatic.  I will not harm myself, I haven't made it this far to give up in a corner of the desert.

This is where I get to be melodramatic.  I keep myself silly, bright and unvarnished as much as possible for those around me.  To be brutally honest, it is for me mostly. I rather play the fool, and have nights like these were April pools at my feet and soaks into my skin, then live like that always.

Tonight I wish to paint my feet indigo and go dancing in the moonlight. Feel the coolness of the desert breeze sink into me, so I can call up the memory when the summer truly takes root.    I want to map my travels in the sand and watch the wind blow them away.  Instead of taking the car, and traveling by one headlight to a desert that seems to only exist in my head.  I will snuggle back down into bed.  Tell myself a story of a future where April has little hold on me and the pile of ash in a simple black plastic box has even less.

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