June 24, 2013
Oh, lots. Endemic need to write vs. zero desire to communicate. I left Facebook a few months ago, deregistered my profile; I just had no more supply for the demand, and no more demand for the supply. It’s a terrific relief, fucking off — next time somebody suggests it to you, I suggest you try giving in. Drop the mic, and walk away. The feedback squeal carves a hollow echo, a there-not-there-not nothing-thing, the dropped plate circling on the floor, the musical calculus behind the ratio of sound to silence. A cough like a ghost, like a page with a ripped-out paper doll, all outline and air.
I reread my journals from 1995-1997 and then I had to stop. When I’m done with what I’m doing, I’m going to do something with them. It’s too bad I didn’t read them sooner, for instance in 1995 through 1997, because I kept telling myself the bald truth on every single page — I’m not in love with him and I never have been, I just don’t want to be alone — secure in the knowledge that I’d never reread it because writing it down meant I had confronted it and resolved it and now never needed to think about it again!
Now I’m writing and deleting things. Everything feels really pointless and shallow. I think I’m right about this. A lifelong game of Duck Duck Goose, all this forgiving and blaming, repainting the same wall. I think I’ll let it go for tonight.