Sunday, May 29, 2005 // 10:47 PM

i would like to know. will i grow out of you, will you follow me around all my life, like some sick shadow, whispering to me of what i am, what i am. i have tried to differentiate the voices in my head and. and this is just one of them. oh gosh, this is easy, turning it into a stylistics carnival makes it easy to prolong the charade, act like i know what i am doing, act like i know. ella. hi. eleanor. that's my name i think, that's my name i know. let us take a loaded issue and slice it up accordingly, like there is a right way to do thing. i have a confession to make: i have no fucking idea what i am doing. i have no idea, and this. this only bothers me because i act like i have some sort of idea, some sort of plan, like i am reducable to one side of a sheet. yes i am screwed up, but yes i'm also a lot less screwed up than i used to be. so no, so i cant see myself that way any more. i cant. whatever they call me, whatever they decide about me dyeing my hair, talking like i do, and. and other shit, and just the everything, the antisocial walking out, the serious abnormalies about my. personal philosophy. im sorry because it hurts to look at myself through your eyes, it hurt when terence said can you not? when i told him i was doing bible study with sarah, it hurt not because it is true it is true and i know it, i. i needed to hear it, and didnt, but this is not a blame game and this is just me, breaking down on myself, breaking while lucid, making a lifestyle out of this hysteria. one thing that still kills me about how i am, the way i react when people walk in on me crying or whatever shit: i am instantly very good at being okay. it is not. it is not that i am not willing to tell you why the fuck i am so just like that, it is just that i lack the words to explain, i lack the words. and anyway, it is perhaps my natural state, how do you explain why you think, why you breathe? how do you explain it? i am not saying that everyday me is not sincere, all i can say is that there is a surface, there is something underneath and it is coming to pieces it is coming to pieces and i cant even explain why. i cant even explain why. please tell me why im depressed, i am not, not right now, it is only the probing into my past that makes me so fucking miserable. that sick shadow has every much a right to me as Lucidity. Lucidity i have written letters to you and about you, but Lucidity. you have rose up in me like tree, and have built a home amongst your branches. i remember. i remember wondering if i would ever grow out of things, way back then, way back when my misery was more constant, more tangible. you were tangible, you were the scars on my arms and the lies that i told and all the times i walked out of wherever to go break down in some toilet cubicle all by myself. i remember and i remember thinking, just let me know that it will eventually pass and i will bear it out i will bear it out. and so i came to a point where i thought okay it is all over okay i am happy now and i thought oh look i am growing up but right now i can never see myself being anything less than psychotrainwreckofagirl/woman/oldlady. i cannot, can you see me being stable? constantly, reliably? and it doesnt make sense to want a promise that i will never be miserable again as long as i live, it doesnt make sense but i want it, i want it i want it i want it. bay said it is unnatural for me to be stable anyway, but i just so desperately want to tell you how far i have come from way back when, you used to know what kind of person i was at all. have i? i dont know whether to hope that i've come far or come near, so what i'm asking, really is simple: am i ever going to grow out of this? i can think of a lot of things i still do right now that are so fucking angsty i cant take it when i take a step back and look at it, but i cant help it and even scarier i cant imagine myself without them. take away my childishness, take away my immaturity, i am just an outline of an outline of an outline and it is not good enough for me, not good enough for me. because i take myself so fucking seriously and maybe that is the problem. i have a problem, it's name is Identity, fuck i dont even know what my name is anymore. and what do i do, do i allow myself to get jaded and get normal (or more so, in a sense), or do i cling ever so vehemently to every freewheeling instinct, do i make all these stands and tear the others down (which i do a lot of). do i even have a choice, somebody PLEASE TELL ME IF I HAVE A CHOICE. am i going to grow out of it. am i going to grow out of it. am i going to someday be normal, do you know what thoughts like these do to me? and are times like these going to some day fade into oblivion, am i really going to decide to switch off my mind switch off my mind what the fuck have i been doing all these years? you think i really can, i used to think so, i used to be patting myself on the back for being so fucking good girl and then some fine day choo said i think you think too much and i broke into a million pieces, do you have any idea how many people tell me that one same thing? how many scenarios, how many complications? and if this is my natural state tell me how can i be expected to betray myself, for happiness? for stability? am i going to grow out of it. am i going to grow out of it. please let me turn off my head, if it is going to make me a happier person, but no i know that there is no answer there is no answer and it's killing me, i am not the one who is complicated it is life, it is living, it is being human that is one big web of collosal paradoxes, i am barely grazing the surface and already it is driving me insane. and ladies and gentlemen and everyone else who has been telling me not to think too much, that is why i have embraced (or at least idealogically) hedonism, at least to some degree, fuck give me my happy hormones and get out of my life, get out of my life. but i cant exhume you, Insanity, you will always have one foot through the door and Lucidity will always be stacking furniture against it to keep you from coming in. but i cant even bring myself to say please stop knocking, would you, anyway, if i had asked?

it is the sensation that you could never have me deny. the glorious hysteria of being caught in the light, of being taken over by something else. so anyway. it is because i am such a child and i cannot take myself being a child, because my weakness and my twistedness is despicable even to myself, i cant take myself and i cant forgive myself even if im assured that everybody else couldn't care less.