I will.

There was so much poetic nonsense in my head last night. Didn't capture it, fell asleep.

I feel good today, in a tired way. I faced a lot last night. Maybe haven't come to terms with all of it yet, but I'm working in that direction.

For the first time in my life I genuinely want to be a good person. The only unhealthy thing I am unwilling to give up is Jesse.

Crying is like emotional puking. Sometimes it seems to come out of nowhere, but there is always an underlying cause. Sometimes you can feel it coming and try to stave it off. But I guess it's just better to get it over with. You usually feel better afterwards anyway.

I'm not so sure anymore that one can achieve atonement through anguish.

I love Tina Lasorsa. I don't think I've expressed that well or often enough. Hindered by poisons. The way I ingested them, one would think I was trying to build up an immunity! (Oh look, a fun connection I don't intend to backwrite. Poisons and puking. Wheee.)

Guess I didn't say much here. There is so much to say and I wish I could just stillframe last night and keep it as a reminder.

My resolution only happens to coincide with this new year.

"Let go."

And she says it so softly I mistake it for a lover's croon and instead draw nearer, reaching out to run my fingers through her hair.

But it turns to sand and sure enough, runs through.

Bang bang.

I feel sick. And I'm certain it isn't the alcohol because if so, my body certainly forgot to wake up sick.

Cannot interpret and cannot ask.

I've tried anyways. Interpreting, that is. Cannot (will not) ask.

The only answer that makes sense is that it was goodbye. That he put the gun in my hand instead. And yeah, I don't have a choice now do I?

Do I?

Last time I was handed a gun I kept trying to give it back, screaming he pull the damn trigger himself. Well! There was no gunshot I assure you, but somehow that corpse bled out. Talk about a slow and painful death. Though, that isn't fair to bring up. I guess my real point is I know I ought to refuse. But this time I really am painted into a corner. (Imperfect metaphor. Paint dries.) Yeah, paint dries and corpses bleed out.

Now! Here's the real question: In such a metaphor, what does it mean to turn the gun on oneself? And would the outcome be of atonement or spite? (Or both?)

Guys. Guys. I do not know how to shoot a gun. Though from this short of range, it must be hard to miss.

One is silver and the other gold.

A series of broken relationships.

My old pals, how I love them, but things are ending.

But with this perhaps some old spectres will also die. Perhaps I will be free from the shackles of history.

Though I don't really expect this to happen until grad school. The deshackling, that is. The slow death is as is: inevitable.

Alone wrote

8,000 Americans dead in 9/11, Iraq and Afghanistan.

Don't email me with your "but what about" and "how can you equate--" It's a fact, not a moral reckoning.

Every one of them is missed by someone.

Every one of them leaves behind a half-person, or perhaps twice a person, as they have to both eat pizza and open presents and smile at work while also carrying the burden of pointless emptiness.

You hear his voice in a park, see him just rounding a corner. And every morning before you open your eyes you try to wake yourself up back--

But time goes only in one direction. Better than spiraling inwards, towards nothing, as it does for parents who are left marking time after their child has moved on.

There's no shame in making him a memory and moving on, but there's not much relief in it either.

Hail and farewell.

Can't help but be reminded of suicide. What about those parents? There is no shame, no stigma attached to the death of your soldier son.

Let us gaze upon the wilde Pushmi-pullyu!

Been up late every night, sleep in late every day. Never wanna go to sleep. Never wanna wake up. But I do manage to get a lot done. I just miss alotta phone calls in the morning. And early afternoon.

I kind of hate how easily I see parallels between the lives of characters and my own. Is that warped empathy or extreme narcissism? As if I wanted their faces to all turn into mirrors.

No. I don't want it. I don't like what I recognize in them most times. Not in a self-loathing way. Just in a but-why-is-life-so-complicated way.

My brain is stuck on William Zanzinger and poor old Hattie Carroll. Just keeps repeating. Also,

They're just old light.

Some things you lose and some things you just give away.

Stuck on net change.

State A being preferable to B. I perceived there to have been a shift from A to B, but realized that I cannot define how the shift occurred. I first assumed it had been due to action. I had been unable to figure out what a plausible state shifting action was. What had caused the movement from A to B? Not action! Inaction! That is to say, stasis at A required something.

I was looking for a push. There is no push. Simply put, there ceased to be a pull.

A song he gave to me...

I already gave it to someone else.

Poetic hearts are a liability. Increased susceptibility to polarity.

Growing weary of symbolism. Even so I was tempted to follow that up with bird-bones. Ugh.

I just wanna go to Orlando and enjoy not being a punk but going to punk shows anyway.

Or maybe I'll just paint instead. OK.