Head Trip

Head Trip

         Every moment of every one of my days is filled with a nagging sadness that I cannot justify or explain. Emotions consume me until I can no longer speak. Sometimes I feel so much that I become numb (if that makes any sense.)

         The moon, the sun and the earth have no clear beginning or end. Every point in a circle connects to some other point, holding the unit together, keeping it whole, preventing disintegration. My world has no beginning or ending either, mainly because each point is weak and fragile and the connections are few. Nothing goes round. Nothing makes sense. Disintegration is inevitable.

         Sitting in my cold room, wearing pooh bear pajamas, while writing lonely disconnected thoughts in a journal is the only thing that makes any sense to me these days. And why not? The only one who knows my thoughts is my pen. My paper is the only one who sees them.

         Sometimes I'm tempted to tear things up, hurl objects across the room, scream until no voice is left to hear. Other times I sit in silent agony, wishing this thing inside me would die. How do I destroy it without destroying myself? After all, it's become such an integral part of my existence. If it died, would there be enough life left to sustain me?

         I realize that no time machine exists, nor will one ever exist, so why do I continue to waste energy on thoughts of what could have been? Should I, instead, concern myself with thoughts of what could be? Maybe that's the logical answer, but somehow I don't think this would be much of an improvement. What could be. Could. That word doesn't imply anything definite, so why concern myself with what may or may not become reality? It's just the manifestation of another form of fantasy world. But is it a safer form? It's slightly more entertaining than a gray matter time warp to yesterday. I can pretend to change the past, but the present bursts in and reminds me that what really happened is etched in granite (or perhaps limestone or maybe even gold.) But what could be dangles before me (tantalizing and tasty.) A temptation. Why? Because the fantasy may become tangible. Tomorrow has not yet arrived to prove me wrong.

         Time. Too much time lost to the relentless pursuit of reflected perfection. The kind of beauty that can only be described as plastic. I know I'm not her. The constant reminders make me weary. All I have is beauty at the bottom of a beer bottle. I have no desire to be the answer to your most desperate lonely hours.

         Time drifting away on thoughts of love and the kind of man who does not exist. Silly thoughts that every now and then steal away precious seconds, until endless minutes of my life are gone. Robbed by a false belief that torn petals will decide true love's fate.

         Time to accept the dreary idea that this existence is immutable.

         Time to close my eyes and find that invisible door, the one leading to the utopia that I, alone, create.

January 8, 2002