anything but this. Cuz this journal's the choppin block where I lay my precious lies, under the glinting edge of the axman's whimsy. His hood, his impenetrable eyes, reveal nothing of his intent, and confirm nothing of his humanity. But what if his quadriceps twitch to aim the high blade on its low target, and then what if his triceps harden to accelerate the swing of axe through air? And then, what if, when the blade stops deep into the block, it parsed my lies from the truth of me on the way? What then will become of the joys of tragedy? the serenity of my trauma? the peace of chaos? What will become of my lies, and the world as I know it? And who the hell will be in control?
I can't stay here tonight. I've known for a couple days that I have to re-examine this journal and my purpose for it, but not tonight. If I am to face the truth, there are people I must see, or call; old friends who have become new strangers in my life. The dirty truth of me does not reflect back dependably from the shiney enchanting faces of beautiful new friends. My unpolished truth reflects back to me most faithfully from the unlikely worn and felted surface of tried and trying friendships. It is the truth I need to see.
two days ago, I overheard someone say, "You don't change your thinking by thinking different. You change your thinking by acting different." "Then how should I act?" I ask myself. It doesn't matter much, as long as it's not the same as before. Change is just change, and control over it is not our destiny.
I cannot tell you how far away from you I feel, or what unpleasantness I must endure to return to you; to me. Will I go, or will I stay? And which is the way? Home.
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