Wednesday, September 06, 2006 // 2:07 AM

pet pug

new york, new york says:
then i will slack!
wah, close to you says:
nOH
wah, close to you says:
YOU WILL DO WORK
wah, close to you says:
JA?

I think. Thinking has not been the best of ideas, lately, when I've been under the influence of stress, when I've been just too charmed to see things straight. All the complicated question I suddenly feel compelled to ask myself, to answer to myself, I don't know. That day cindy said struggling to find their identity, and maybe this is all it is, at the end of the day, all this needing to believe, all this pugilistic ambivalence.

I think. I think I want to go back to being a dreamer now, ambitions and all, I don't know where they fit in with me. In a lot of ways this means claiming back my some sort of idealism, some sort of hoping, allowing myself to be starry-eyed and in a great sense of things irrational, or at least less militantly rational. I feel the weight of expectation reaching out to me, but maybe I've forgotten that I am still hopelessly, hopelessly young, in some ways, in very many ways. So the cynicism is a waste of time, when things else would resonate so much more strongly with me. To milk my youth for all it's worth, to be girls just wanna have fun, to want to be more happy than sad or ambivalent or out of control.

So maybe, maybe I'm just tired of fighting, like a drowning man (woman), like a wartime society, like some an irksomely bow-tied pet pug. But, yet I do, still, yet I compose myself like a piece of prose, like I am having my portrait painted, the unwinding does not come unprovoked, or perhaps I am just not tired enough to lapse back into comfort, to call the truce and put the navy back into cold storage where it belongs. I wish. I wish there was a way to stave off the emptiness, without the nagging sense that you've just told yourself the biggest lie in the world. Someday, someday very soon in fact, I know I will have to answer to others but more troublingly and more inescapably, to myself, for all the things that I have said.

I went for drinks, with the guys, hung out talking about nothing like I haven't in a long time, this feels. Familiar and strange and comfortable and awkward and. And I don't know. I listened to my own laughter today, warm and clear and heartfelt, and I don't know if this is me, I don't know whether it matters. I've been pissed off with myself for the way I have been, lately, all this smarmy satisfaction, I've been alone and untended inside myself and maybe this is why I feel this need to defend myself. I know I've been cold, and proud, and irritable as hell, every single day this week. In some ways I've come to see who are the friends who still stick around, at times like this, when I just bloody can't be bothered, because I am too confused with myself to see beyond it. Some day, I think I will be sorry for having let myself get so wrapped up in the selfishness of my ambitions, but if nothing else. I know enough to close myself up like a fan, which can be both a good or bad thing.

One thing I have missed, that I hadn't realised I had missed: the utter lack of pretensions. When all I have been is morose and brooding and what is, what am, lately. This is a sort of reprieve. I don't know if I can go back to being this, but I have a feeling whatever happens I will end up surprising myself. Even if it is by being utterly predictable. So. So give me honesty, I ache for something genuine, or. Or I want to be held and told that it is okay, to put down my fists and give myself away. I'm not even sure if I could manage that.

Am I supposed to respond, to over-react, to fight. I'm not having this conversation, it would be childish on my part any way I went about it, because you don't have anything to prove to me, and vice versa. So do what you will, bitch and throw things at me, because you should know, I have needed it like you must, now, and both you and I are too old to be thinking that we are beyond reproach, even if we will act like it, a lot of the time. And cynically speaking: sometimes that's exactly what relationships are made of, the shit swallowing, the tantrums and insensitivity, the murderous comparisons. Bouts of happiness and irrationality and I'm never going to talk to you again. You are inside yours as much as I am inside mine.