Posted December 3rd, 2003 by Michelle

There is so much to write, every given day, that I feel sometimes I might burst or throw up if I can’t get to a keyboard. I cannot help it that pen and paper fail me; no one can read my handwriting, least of all me. If I cannot find a way to do this I will go mad.

I was sick for three boring days but tonight I had fun with my new friend Jon. It was a terrific, long, funny night, almost eight hours of good stuff, but near the end we just listened to music. We drove to the top of my hill sat in the car and he played music important to him and I thought I truly might stop breathing. The music he played was so filled with love and loss and useless truths that I didn’t quite know what to do with my false, half-drunk self. I know nothing of love. Nothing but reminders of what it once was to me. Truly, other than family, love has exactly nothing to do with my life and while that might seem a tragic or pitiful thing, it’s not. Love is just not an option, not something I wake with every morning. In fact, it confuses me. And this music, this music that shook my chest, that challenged my cynicism, that, sadly, reminded me of thoughts past, pressed upon my wine-laden mind and threatened to crush, to press me, each song like another stone on Giles Gory’s plank. What to do with so much foreign information. There should be warning signs on CD’s, not for “adult themes” or “racist lyrics” or whatever nonsense currently reigns. It should read: “total bullshit” or “beware: truth”. Something that warns of what is really there.

All of my thoughts are the same. What the *ahem* am I doing. I know nothing of contentedness, I mostly only know the difference between miserable or no. I watched the hills rolling by tonight, almost black against black, and understood that I have to keep plugging along. I have to keep believing, have to put yet another stupid f-cking foot in front of another, like I’ve done for so many years, and keep hoping that it will eventually lead me SOMEWHERE. If I am lucky enough to live to be 90, then I’ve already lived over a third of my life. I don’t even know what to do with that information.

There are good, hopeful, happy moments as well, but I never seem to be near a computer when they happen. I feel as though I’m floating, and little more.

There are a thousand things here to be thankful for, and I know them. A stepmom lovingly heating me soup when I’m too sick to stand. A dad who will never allow me to go hungry or cold. But the absolute question is this: what can I do for myself here? Or anywhere? What exactly can I do?