novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- how the origin of love passes into legend
If it's true what Lipsky said (It's the impossible remarks that carry and strand a person in specificity) - I feel like he will just float away in time. I never got anything concrete. I have a bundle of passionate, lovingly crafted and emotionally confused love letters, but they were sculpted by someone who wanted to remain mired as anonymous. I gave him chance after chance to become corporeal, and I have to accept that this is all he wants. How boring and flimsy. How... pervasive. How Creepy. Why won't he... He's the fog of San Francisco, rolling in my skies the past year. If he hollers, let him go. He hollered from the get go; I never grabbed on. Never found a firm hold. No beautiful bedhead, nook of arms or sigh in the shower there. No tactility. No scope. I am just so disappointed in him. I think that is what I'm going to come away with, above everything else. Whenever I think about him, I am let down. I am beginning to feel very, very sorry for him. Why does he take pleasure in straining and anger? How is duplicity half as fun as trust and respect? (While I'm asking questions I can't answer, why the hell am taking it out on my body, biting my nails until they bleed smoking too much sleeping too little and eating oddly, hiding under hair or sweaters? If he channels his anger into productivity, why can't I? I'm another animal altogether, I guess. Driven to hunt for other reasons. Not happy in captivity. I have hollered. Let me go.) The most beautiful performances are divined straight from personal truth.
8:34 pm - 10.22.10 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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