page 3: "I wish I could see myself as others do"
page 4: "What is inspiration?"
page 5: "I hate it when I peak in your diary and see what you're thinking"
page 6: "Maybe I play the banal part because that's what I am"
page 7: "I wish that I'd kept the light off all the time"
page 8: "And of course, that's what all of this is now"
page 9: "The only way to recieve life is to want death"
There is something that occurs between two people, usually lovers, who have
been lying to themselves up until a certain moment in time. This is the breaking
point when the poorly concieved stitching between the two of them finally breaks
apart, and their two wholes are left separated, and what more is there to say?
If they are intelligent, worldly persons, then they recognize understand the
situation immediately- indeed, they have watched it coming since the very beginning.
Since the very first time i ever took a lover, I have schemed ways to be with
them and then never have dealings with them again afterwards. But I am weak,
and weakness is kind, and silly, and stupid, and each time I failed at my original
intent. And to what purpose? Wasted time. Tortured weeks, and guilt, and annoyance.
Sex is not love; the two have nothing to do with each other. The idea of the
two together frightens me.
I wish I could see myself as others do. I don't know if I am ugly or pretty,
fat or thin, happy or bitter, awkward or confident, attractive or ridiculous,
interesting or cliched. I feel weighed down by my femininity. Like I will accomplish
nothing, because only men have the sense, the rationality, the solitude, needed
to make art.
What is inspiration? What do I know? I know the struggles of the people around
me against their limitations. I know a confusing literate world, I know illusions
and dreams being dashed, worlds of slim ideas, ridiculous subcultures, expressions,
things that seem to exist and seem to move, my body that won't stop changing
beneath me; a body I can never know, that is completely alien to me; I know
the people who seek comfort in me and the people I seek comfort in. I know brief
periods of lame confidence and I know this doubt that shakes me; and that even
in the security of this state of doubt there is only more doubt- and so no security-
never security. I know that other people have the same consciousness as i do
but we don't reach each other. Because our bodies get in the way. I know it
is important to be honest- to be honest with everyone- although they will only
see whatever they want to, anyway. I know that all the expressions I give and
recieve are untrue. And I am bored and overwhelmed. I know the only way to recieve
life is to want death. The death of everything but truth.
I hate it when I peak in your diary and see what you're thinking. I hate it
when you talk about Women; no matter who she is, she is banal. Whatever I am
to you there is already a lie before you write it. I hate you because you allow
me to carry on; because you don't ask of me what you already know, instead you
for allow me to play the game again when I know that you're not worth my time-
but here we are alike, so hate me for the same reasons, please, and write them
down and use them for a little while; until I'm a small unhappy history to tell
the next one, although we knew what we were doing all along, and you'll know
that we knew, and she'll know it all.
Maybe I play the banal part because that's what I am. All a person can be is
the total collection of their expressions from each and every moment of their
life. And I'm just as ugly when I'm alone- my private displays of laziness just
as grotesque and vulgar as the acts I put on in public and for company. And
any expressions I ever made that may have been beautiful were purely to win
your favour (and you know it)- so those are the worst of all.
I wish that I'd kept the light off all the time- I left it on sometimes because
I knew you would think you enjoyed my body and I knew I would think that I enjoyed
you enjoying it- but that wasn't me, and you didn't really like it anyway.
And of course, that's what all of this is now, ad infinitum; this is a trick
to make you love me. To get you back into my bed. To get us stuck in the game
again.
The only way to recieve life is to want death; the death of everything but truth.
And I'll never admit this, but I can't do it.