8:32 am - Sunday, Aug. 18, 2002
Song:
I can't do it. My mind holds the race and my fingers have relearned the simple pattern of the curvy keys, but I can't be forced to write.
I had a journal with me for the entire week, I wrote a simple paragraph and that was all.
All the times I wished I could merely live my life, that every moment wasn�t a constant written in my mind, and now I don�t. Now my thoughts are simplified and never revised to perfection. Basic. So Basic. It�s hard for your thought pattern to suddenly change. I miss the stories of my life written through my head, allowing my to walk without realizing it, or not see the guy at the next table watching me and the way I eat and the way I stare off when I think.
Now I notice these things, unable to shut out the outside world, or let it back in when I was at a lack for material. Walking is a repetitive activity I don�t much like, and when the guy at the next table watches, he spends an excessive amount of time attempting to catch my eye.
I wore five different boys sweatshirts this week, yet thought nothing of it. The words that once slid about in my mind forming the lines if an extravagant narrative of my dear life were those that allowed me to assume. The boys who liked me, those who loved me, and those I liked or loved in return were decided by story, the best plot lines were the new path I should follow.
I cried to Chris, at Chris, and about Chris last night and felt a dampness I hate to let take over because I hate for tears to be the annoyance mine have become. Help me write and decide what I need, and tell me dear that the dampness that runs across my cheeks isn�t a form of begging back what I wished away.
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