Its 4:30 am and I can’t sleep. I’ve spent the last several hours in that state of hazy exhaustion where everything at least in part, feels surreal and intangible. At night everything glows blue. I have been reading the first 50 pages of Catcher in The Rye and have fallen madly in love with Holden Caulfield, however hubristic and humble, however eloquent and vulgar, and honest and fake and paradoxical—or what have you, as his character is. He is more real that some people I know. Have you ever noticed that? How ashamed people are to be themselves? How embarrassed we’ve all become at feeling, or loving, or being angry? I think about it a lot. We have all stifled ourselves, put ourselves on mute and lost the remote control in the couch—beside a shaker of garlic salt—which I found mysteriously in our couch earlier—it smells something awful. We are uncomfortable just being us, and feeling like we do. Oscar Wilde wrote that “man is least himself when he talks in his own person, give him a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.” That’s not true for us. Even our masks lie.
Why? Why do we waste so much life killing ourselves?
Because we are afraid, and its easy.
I was reading with a Mag-Light over my shoulder. A powdered moth flew right into it, right by my face, not an inch away. I read until my eyes felt like they do now, burning red dry sandpaper blinking. That’s one of the best feelings on Earth. Reading until you feel like you might go blind from all the pages and the ink. Until you want to cry, or your eyes weep for themselves. I had forgotten that feeling until this summer. I quit reading while I was at ABC—except for a few books.
I killed that moth. It’s a sand colored squish on a napkin in my waste paper basket, 3 and one half feet away from me, next to a lopsided pile of magazines that are being used to press a big yellow lily, that died naturally. I always keep flowers. I have several dried roses hanging upside down in my closet, and a few in vase that were from my great-grandmother’s funeral. They’re all quite morbid really. Maybe I will throw them all out. I won’t bet on it though, I’m much too sentimental for that. That’s one of the things wrong with me. That and I’m easily influenced on what I read, and it reflects itself in everything I think. Amongst others.
There is a light shining from the hallway—down the stairs, pale and pointless. It has been bothering me all night, obnoxious from the corner of my eye. I should turn it off. I won’t. I’ve had the same song stuck in my head all day, on repeat, over and over again. It gives me a headache. At least its not the Dancing Kitty Cat song or Phoebe Buffet’s Shower Song this time. That was awful. Entertaining, but horrid.
If I go to sleep now I will get approximately 2 and a half hours of sleep. I have set my alarm for 7:30, a ridiculous time. I am wondering what the point of that would be. I’m so tired though, I just cant sleep. Maybe I should get some pills for this again. No, that would be too…too…something. Something I don’t want to be or do. I will find a word for that later. Its constantly changing.
The really sick thing is, that I feel bad for killing that moth. That sick anxious turning feeling in my stomach when I think about it. I hate that.
Because we are afraid, and its easy.
I was reading with a Mag-Light over my shoulder. A powdered moth flew right into it, right by my face, not an inch away. I read until my eyes felt like they do now, burning red dry sandpaper blinking. That’s one of the best feelings on Earth. Reading until you feel like you might go blind from all the pages and the ink. Until you want to cry, or your eyes weep for themselves. I had forgotten that feeling until this summer. I quit reading while I was at ABC—except for a few books.
I killed that moth. It’s a sand colored squish on a napkin in my waste paper basket, 3 and one half feet away from me, next to a lopsided pile of magazines that are being used to press a big yellow lily, that died naturally. I always keep flowers. I have several dried roses hanging upside down in my closet, and a few in vase that were from my great-grandmother’s funeral. They’re all quite morbid really. Maybe I will throw them all out. I won’t bet on it though, I’m much too sentimental for that. That’s one of the things wrong with me. That and I’m easily influenced on what I read, and it reflects itself in everything I think. Amongst others.
There is a light shining from the hallway—down the stairs, pale and pointless. It has been bothering me all night, obnoxious from the corner of my eye. I should turn it off. I won’t. I’ve had the same song stuck in my head all day, on repeat, over and over again. It gives me a headache. At least its not the Dancing Kitty Cat song or Phoebe Buffet’s Shower Song this time. That was awful. Entertaining, but horrid.
If I go to sleep now I will get approximately 2 and a half hours of sleep. I have set my alarm for 7:30, a ridiculous time. I am wondering what the point of that would be. I’m so tired though, I just cant sleep. Maybe I should get some pills for this again. No, that would be too…too…something. Something I don’t want to be or do. I will find a word for that later. Its constantly changing.
The really sick thing is, that I feel bad for killing that moth. That sick anxious turning feeling in my stomach when I think about it. I hate that.
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