29 June 2001
Last year: Hopefully that'll stave off any further mental bombardments.
I've been sitting here, staring at the computer screen for almost fifteen minutes. I don't know what to say. I feel numb (maybe it's that I only less than four hours of sleep) and bitter (maybe it's my job) and burnt out.
Say? What is there to say?
When I was younger, I thought about Hell a lot.
Forget the stereotype of fire and brimstone for a minute. Biblically, Hell is merely the absence of God.
I wondered: Did that mean that souls in hell knew there was a God but that He was unavailable to them? Or did they believe with all certainty that there was no God? Or was it merely an aching void within them that they didn't know how to fill?
I always thought the third option would be the worst.
It's a good thing I gave up wanting to be a writer. It's taken me almost an hour to get this far. I've written and erased and written and changed and written and deleted. I can't figure out how to say what I want to say, not without frightening those of you who are my friends.
I don't want to frighten you. I don't think there's anything to be frightened of. I just feel... empty. Not a void, not a vacuum. Just... grey and empty.
I want to be alone for a while. I want to have imaginary conversations with imagined people that will never, ever take place in real life. I want to cry on imaginary shoulders and feel imaginary hands in my hair and try again to feel. I want to try to capture the greyness, to try to turn it to silver - or even onyx, because even pain would be better than this. I need to be alone, to protect my loved ones from this, from me.
I am dangerous when I'm like this. Before I understood the nature of the grey, I used to do hateful, hurtful things. I wanted to make the people that I loved hate me, because that pain at least would be sharp enough to pierce the grey. I didn't know it then, but I know it now. I try to contain the urge to be hurtful, but it's not easy, even understanding it.
I love you. Try to understand that. Don't be frightened for me. Don't worry. I've done it before, and I've pulled through. I'll pull through this time, too. It's nothing to be frightened of. It's just grey.
I don't want to post this. You're going to worry, because you love me, too. Don't think I don't appreciate that. But I'll be all right. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe a cup of coffee will help put things in perspective. Don't worry. Please.
Word of the Day:
Walter Mitty - a commonplace unadventurous person who seeks escape from reality through daydreaming
Currently Reading:
- nothing
Current Projects:
- drawing
- Hall stuff
- garden