Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 79 I don't know what day it is, or what time. I wake up naturally by 9 am, regardless of what time I go to bed. My body may know it's time, it's my mind that can't be bothered to remember. And that past will creep into you. Tap on your shoulder, just to remind you it's still there, waiting. It doesn't haunt me so much as it has actually become a part of me. It's just a wall now. Made of some new age looking metal, maybe brushed steel. Silver. Not a cage, but solid. It's not close, I've got room to move around inside, but you can't come in. Sure, sometimes I hang my heart on the outside, and there are buttons and levers you can push and pull. But, you can't come in. (But. You knew I would come back, didn't you?) So many times I've given everything without thought to intentions or reasons. Too many times for me to not hesitate before doing it again. No, it's not fair. No, it's not right. I can't say need without squinting my eyes. And when I tell the truth You will run and hide So the cycle goes. Over and over. Minor changes, script rewrites, costumes, make-up. All in this movie. If you've never watched Flirt, you should. It's just so fucking true. But, I'm in love with Hal Hartley, and not just because he uses Parker Posey all the time. I had a dresser that will one day be in a movie. A psycho girlfriend will be based on me. And maybe, that clip of my mouth, while I'm applying lipstick, will appear on a screen. All things being equal, her beauty was not her fault And it was not her only advantage Buy a map to look at the distance. And I will tell you the things you want to hear, when the time is right, when I'm ready to let you hurt me, when I can maybe deal with the mounting frustration. You can make the world your charm or your chain Nothing will replace your voice on the other end. Nothing can make me believe that's not you pulling on me. Nothing will explain away my eyes half closed, with only the sound of my breath, and you. Giving me those words. The same words, but rearranged into another composition. And, how do you even speak the same language when they mean so much more? Delete. Edit. Change. Backspace. Cut. Paste. They're all black marks that mean something, depending on where you're standing. 8:44 p.m. - 2002-09-25 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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