Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 119 You can�t think no one knows. I read some of my old diary, the old old stuff from a year ago, and I noticed a strong thread of pure denial. I�m beginning to come to terms with the fact that I wasn�t really happy, that I just kept up the appearance of happy. And, that�s fine. . . . I never write about art. I�m sorry. I just can�t force it, force the thing that invades you and pushes you to make something. I wish I could explain what happens properly. When it happens, I don�t remember it, I just step back and there it was, the thing that made the brushes move over the canvas, put the colors together to form. And there�s some piece of everyone that wants to own what I wish I was. As though by proximity you could have the muse as your own... she only works for me, and you need to get your own. It�s God that creeps into you, or if God is already inside, it�s a knock on the door of you, it�s an alarm clock that wakes up the little flame inside. You can�t know God�s plan, or your plan if you are God, or what the flame is going to burn through in its course. I�ll tell you what I want if you promise not to tell. I want someone to feel what I felt then, when I made that blind. I want them to understand, though they�ll never be able to tell me with words. And I want them to leave the little piece of me that I cannot share inside where it belongs, to name its existence without taking it, to accept that it cannot be easy to live with that battered thing running around like a hyper active child. He knew, and saw it with his own eyes behind mine. The thing that will make me cry is that I�ve lost the only person I felt really understood what I wanted, but couldn�t give it to me, wouldn�t because there is no could. We were in a bar, the night I took my top off on a dare, and I had said, �You can never understand life until Dave Matthews moves you to move, and you understand the importance of the words.� As I took my shot, 6 in the corner pocket, Crash came on the jukebox. He threw me a glare, �I put this on.� Someone else had to take the shot, because I couldn�t hold the stick any more. In my first whisper of hatred, I understand. It�s not that I can�t play pool. It�s that I don�t want to remember the shot I couldn�t take. I always live where you can hear the trains go by. 11:03 p.m. - 2002-11-29 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||