beautiful things have died in my hands

2004-11-06T18:06:59Z

if i was smart, i would put up a nice photograph here, a distant beach heavy with white sands and palm trees, blue seas rolling against gentle coves, distant cliffs pale and promising. but i am not smart, and i have never been anywhere interesting. a shoebox full of photographs describes my life as four significant events and the empty spaces between them. if we talked about distance, i could only comment on how far away you are. if we talked about geography, i could only tell you how much i hate this fucking place.

if i was pretty, i’d place a photograph of me, eyes shining, mouth smiling, skin soft and supple like my feet are used to walking red carpets, hair immaculate as though i have the time to sort out every little thing, even these littlest of things, these minuscule details rendered in grey scale and flung into the meaninglessness encasing us. but i am not pretty – my eyes are cold and my face is pale and i lack the courage to smile. you might like my mind or my ideas, but my body (monochrome waste rotted on brittle bones angry to stab through my failing skin) would hold no sway over anyone, anything. mirrors remind me i am painful to look at – i do not need to justify anything.

if i was interesting, i’d regale you with some stories of mine, the time some friends and i went to france to stay in the countryside, the time i drove fast at midnight, determined the stars would not escape me again, the time i tried acid on a speed boat breaking laws and staying awake despite the time. but it wouldn’t mean anything to you, because i am not interesting – if pessimism and loss are things you care nought for, then you will care nought for me. that’s probably for the best - i’m the wretched creature who never hurries out of the rain. i’d rather die than lose a fight – i’d rather stay like this, forever.

this is not friends only. for one thing, i don't have any friends. for another, i hate it when interesting people conceal key facets of themselves to everyone lacking a journal. but certain things here will have to be protected - my memory, my identity, my need. if you want everything then i will add you, and take great joy in doing so. if not, then fine, glance casually through these pages and try to understand the things that are happenning to me. try to understand snow on a christmas morning, falling gently past outstretched hands too dead to really care what day it is. try to understand empty eyes carved of justice and despair. try anything that you want.

...we will only get there quicker.

the october file

beautiful things have died in my hands