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under_control
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» a reminder of her I'd rather not be overly dramatic right now so it's difficult to proceed. I'm somewhere between tears and seething, destructive rage. But If you saw me you would just think I was tired and staring blankly at the screen. It's amazing that even as I write these words, my anger and sadness abate somewhat. I'm suprised to discover that I can suddenly touch-type at a fairly reasonable rate. I just don't want to expend the energy to look down at the keys. Things seem pretty hopeless somehow. I'm so afraid that my future, which once seemed so green and gold and warm, will now be nothing but salvaged moments of red pleasures streaked on a cold grey. I guess I'm not even making sense. These are not my emotions. I don't even know what my emotions are, so how can I transcribe them here? My logical, detached mind, my Ego, is frowning at the outbursts of my Id. I think horrible thoughts that I could never admit to, and at the same time, I know that everyone else thinks the same or worse. How else could Francis Bacon or Hieronymous Bosch or Umberto Eco create their art if they couldn't tap into that destructive and dark energy that we repress and hide from our fellow men and women. Why is it so hard to formulate these thoughts into words, and more interestingly, why do I/we try? I don't want to lie here in the dark waiting for sleep, my mind free to wander. I want to talk to someone and I can't call my friends at 12:30am. Instead I write, and it soothes me somewhat. I'm distracted. The pain and anger and fear drop away, and so I don't really mind that I've written nothing coherent tonight. I don't mind that a person reading this could judge me insane, insipid or insincere. I've helped myself a bit. I think I can sleep now.
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diaryland |